Penguin's Weakness
by SlytherinPride2292
Summary: 30 y/o Sylvia Diana Gordon is Det. James Gordon's little sister, and has been in and out of jail since she was 15 y/o. When Jim finds out that she and Oswald are together, Sylvia tries to find the line between appearing to be the innocent little sister Jim wants while also becoming Oswald's confidante. Penguin/OC. (AU where Oswald has a SO). (Prequel to 'He Calls Me Pigeon')
1. He's Still Alive

Chapter One: He's Still Alive

 _I could do it_.

The thought occurs to me almost out of no where. Well, not completely out of the blue either. It wasn't the first time it has crossed my mind.

 _It wouldn't take long._

I stood on the roof of my 20-floor apartment building. There was hardly any wind, and the breeze that whispered through my hair was inviting. It had just started to sprinkle, the sky warning Gotham that it would soon open its arms. A roll of thunder accompanied the breeze, greeting my ears like a long lost friend. Like any other moment as this, the storm would pass but not without suffering some destruction.

Standing on the edge, on the brink of the abyss, knowing all it took was just stepping off the ledge to end it all. I felt light-headed with the knowledge of how quickly I could die, how brief the fall would be. And I started laughing.

 _I could do it. Take one step off the ledge...just one step, that's all._

How easy it was! The fall itself would be liberating, and I would not be able to stop it from happening. The chances of me living after jumping from this height was about 1 in a 100. Good odds in my opinion.

"What are you doing, Sylvia?"

The excitement that I had been feeling slightly died as I turned slowly to see my brother standing just a few feet away. The one and only James Gordon here to save yet another life. His face...how worried and concerned he looked. He held a gun—his gun—in his hand, probably having pulled it out from instinct.

"Thinking." I answered quietly, then I turned to look down.

"Why are you up here?" Jim asked gently, sheathing his weapon. He held out his hand to me. "You know you don't want to do this."

"I know that, do I?" I asked softly, still staring down at the looming traffic below.

Bright lights, all the street lamps were on. Cars bustled, and restaurant neon signs indicating they were open flashed like Christmas tree lights. I smiled in spite of myself. Honestly, I had not felt so relieved, so free up until this point.

"You're hurting, I know." Jim said quietly, nodding. "I know you are. But look, this isn't the way to go."

"You're right. Maybe you should bring me to the pier and shoot me."

Jim frowned as I carefully moved away from the ledge, approaching him.

He knew what I was talking about, even without me mentioning anything about Oswald Cobblepot.

"Is that why you're up here?" asked Jim incredulously, coming closer. He gently touched my shoulders, like he was making sure I wasn't physically injured in any other way.

Physically, I was fine.

"You took him from me, Jim." I barely managed a calm voice.

"Who?"

"YOU KNOW WHO!" I shouted, my voice carried over the rooftops as I shoved him away.

Jim stared at me.

"You and Cobblepot…." Jim whispered in disbelief.

I nodded.

"You didn't tell me…." Jim began.

"Of course I didn't tell you; you wouldn't have approved," I remarked harshly.

I turned and looked down at the ledge once more. Being angry at my brother for dispatching my boyfriend was not going to replace what I'd lost. I knew that, more than anyone. Oswald and I had been together for over half a year, but those months had been….magical. He had been an umbrella boy for Fish Mooney, but I saw much, _much_ more in him. More than he even saw in himself.

And Jim shot him at the pier. It didn't take long for the rumor to spread, and the rumor itself—as a rumor was in Gotham—could be fraudulent but I didn't hear a denial.

"Sylvia…."

"Come near me, Jim, and I swear to god…."

"You'll jump?" Jim asked.

"Don't tempt me."

"Sylvia, I'll tell you something because you need to know more than anyone, but it needs to stay between us, okay?"

"I'm done talking to you."

He snatched my wrist and pulled me far away from the ledge. I glared at him.

"I didn't kill him." Jim said.

I stared at him. I wanted to believe him, but Gotham's sewers told truths a lot better than some of the police officers in the GCPD. Jim Gordon wasn't a liar, really. He was a complicated man definitely, but a liar he was not. He was more honest than me—which in all honesty wasn't saying much. How else did I manage to find myself in the company of Fish Mooney and her charming subservient?

"Then why are there people saying that you did?" I questioned coldly, jerking my hand away from him. "People are talking, Jim. Why?"

"Falcone told me to do it," he said hoarsely. "Otherwise, he would come after Barbara, and you. He sold out Fish Mooney, Sylvia—and she was out for blood. And I was given a choice, and I made one. The _right_ one."

He held my shoulders, looking me dead in the eyes.

"You _have_ to believe me."

I pushed him away from me again. But despite my hatred for the moment, I believed him. I could believe that Fish Mooney wanted Oswald dead for his disloyalty. I could believe that Falcone would order Jim to kill any snitch that ratted out an underling. But there was no way I could believe that Jim would kill a man. That's something I could do but not Jim.

"Say you believe me." Jim whispered.

"I believe you."

Jim nodded, exhaling a sigh of relief. Then the overprotective part of him took over.

"You and Cobblepot…." Jim muttered, shaking his head. "How did you even meet him—you know what, I don't want to know."

"Wise move, Sherlock," I said slyly.

"Should I be worried for your safety now that Cobblepot is gone?"

"No. He told no one that I knew he was going to the MCU," I answered dutifully.

"At least he did _that_ much," Jim said, rolling his eyes.

I smiled in spite of myself, tapping him on the shoulder.

"You'd like him if you only allowed yourself to, Jim."

"Not likely. He's a crook."

"So am I." I admitted, shrugging my shoulders.

Jim shook his head like he was pretending not to hear that I admitted to being a criminal. It wouldn't be a shock to him honestly. As children, he was a do-gooder, always stood up for people, always tried to walk the path of our father's righteousness. Personally, I took the road most traveled by in Gotham: crime. Mine were mostly petty—a mugging here, a robbery there; I never was caught but Jim always knew. I was the criminal that he couldn't arrest. Not because I was family but because I left no trace.

"Were you really going to jump?" Jim asked quietly as he took me in a warm embrace.

"No. I just come up here to think."

"Are you joking?"

"No." I said honestly. "I really _do_ come up here to think. Less people, more room. The weather's nice."

Jim sighed, "I wish you would just go to a library to do your thinking."

"What's the fun in that?" I asked as he escorted me from the roof and back to my apartment.

We stopped outside my apartment door, and he watched me unlock it and walk inside. Pointedly, he walked in and made a quick sweep to make sure there were no creepy crawlies hanging around to shang-hai my backside in any case they wanted to seek revenge on James Gordon for whatever he might have done to upset anyone else. It was like he had a bulls-eye on his back all the time.

"Will you be safe tonight?" Jim asked, closing the blinds of the windows and locking them.

"Always."

"Do you have protection?"

"Thanks to you, big brother, I keep a gun under my pillow and a knife under the bathroom sink," I said comically, smirking when he appeared mortified by the implication. When he saw my smile, he realized I was being humorous, but truthful. I did have a gun in the bedroom and a knife in the bathroom.

"You have my number on speed dial if you need me."

"Yep—Number 2, like the little shit that you are."

Jim chuckled at my response, hugging me again. As he did, he looked over my shoulder and his body tensed. Following his gaze to a picture frame that sat on my entertainment center, the picture was of Oswald and me. He and I sat in a photo booth, one of those generic cheap knock-offs found in carnivals, and we were smiling together, holding hands—he wore a suit per the usual, but I wore a yellow sundress. That was the first day we spent together away from all the crime and corruption of Gotham's underworld and he had shown me that, at least in him, chivalry was very much alive. And his shy nature had been merely a disguise for the true confidence and ambition that did dwell inside him.

The way we met had been completely a coincidence. In Fish Mooney's club of all places—one man called him a 'penguin' and while he had become murderous, I noted that the penguin was my favorite animal and he happened to be the most handsome one I'd ever seen. After the fact, he seemed disarmed by my initial attraction to him. One thing led to another, and this picture was the end result of a beautiful first date.

"You might want to hide that," said Jim darkly, referring to the picture. "If anyone sees that you had a connection to him—"

"They might come after me?"

"You know I hate it when you finish my sentences for me," Jim returned grumpily.

"Well, I'm right, aren't I?"

Disgruntled, he agreed.

"I would think you'd like me to keep that photo," I told him.

He cocked his head in confusion.

"If anyone sees this photo, they'll know that Oswald and I were an item. You, my wonderful brother, supposedly killed him so one would assume that I would want nothing to do with you." I told him pointedly. "they'll think I hate you so they wont worry about me helping you pursue Thomas and Martha Wayne's death. Case and point. Does that make sense?"

Jim smirked at me.

"Always the clever one, aren't you?"  
"Well, you have the muscle—I figure I could have the brains in the family."

"I can't have brains either?"

"You have some of the brains," I relented.

"I guess you can keep the picture then."

"I would keep the picture regardless of what you told me to do."

"You have a point." Jim said with resignation.

Jim sat down on the couch, looking exhausted but not with our discussion. I closed the door and sat next to him.

"So who killed the Waynes if not Mario Pepper?" I questioned.

"No idea."

"You'll find out, I imagine."

"For right now, people will have to assume that we caught the killer," said Jim. "That's the reason this whole thing happened. Two of the most powerful people in the town were gunned down in an alley, no regard for their status."

"You cant agree with framing some knucklehead for the murders?"

"No, but I can see why Mooney and Bullock did this. The Waynes were a symbol of hope for this town."

"Mario Pepper must have done something to warrant his death." I told Jim not without apathy. Jim frowned saying, "That's what Bullock told me. This town is sick."

"Sick like me?" I asked.

"Not like you."

"Well, Jim. You're referring to crime as a sickness. You became this cop, this good guy who does what he can do to put shitty people behind bars. When are you going to acknowledge that I am one of the shitty people?"

"Have you killed anyone?"

"No," I said.

"Have you betrayed your family?"

"Of course not."

"Would you tell me if you did?" Jim asked curiously.

"You know the answer to that," I remarked pointedly.

Jim sighed, shaking his head.

"Gotham has been sick for years, sicker than I thought. Mario Pepper was the fall-guy; I'm the pawn. And you, Sylvia. You'll need to be careful. If you want my opinion—"

"Which I don't," I interrupted.

He kept going like he didn't hear me: "You might want to loyal up with Falcone."

"With the man that had my boyfriend killed?" I scoffed. "Yeah, that ties it up nicely. Nice thinking."

"Maroni is a hothead. Falcone at least is old-fashioned, he'll make sure someone like you is treated with respect."

"Because I'm a lady?"

"Yes."

I sighed, saying, "News flash, Jim? My loyalty is not to Falcone or Maroni, or even Fish Mooney. They have done _nothing_ for me."

Jim frowned, knowing what I was ready to say.

"Don't tell me…." Jim said slowly.

"My loyalty is to Oswald."

"Damn it, I knew you were going to say that," Jim growled, standing to his feet. "He's a bit of a creep, isn't he?"

"As charming as they come," I returned calmly, standing. "And my loyalty is to you as well. You're my brother, and I love you. Oswald was—is—my boyfriend, and I love him too." I stopped myself short, cutting myself off but I'd already said it.

Jim stared at me.

"You _love_ him?" Jim asked breathlessly.

I smiled weakly.

I had thought of saying it aloud for weeks now, but I had been too afraid to say it. Too many times had my heart been broken, too many times had I felt the urge to say those forbidden words only to be told that we couldn't be together. The words themselves seemed taboo on my end, and only when I'd thought to speak them, it had been too late. But it just slipped out like that!

"How long have you known him?" Jim questioned, approaching me.

"Long enough," I replied coolly.

"Did anyone know you were together?"

"In a sense."

"Does Falcone know?"

"It's possible. A number of people have seen us together.."

He glared at me.

"Am I being interrogated right now?" I questioned defensively, crossing my arms. "You know I don't like being questioned."

"So you've been interrogated, have you?" Jim retorted curtly.

"Not by your department, but yes." I admitted calmly. "Let's get off the subject, huh?"

Jim sighed gruffly, turning away from me; he started pacing the kitchen.

"What, you're angry?" I asked, stepping forward. "You don't like the fact that I love him.."

"Sylvia…."

"Jim…."

Jim pressed his lips together tightly, clenching his hands into fists. He was angry, definitely.

"You need someone who will protect you," Jim said coldly. "He won't. He can't even protect himself."

"No shit, Jim—Falcone had him killed!"

Jim growled, " _I said I didn't kill him_!"

"That's not the point!" I snarled back. "The only reason I am not dead too is because of Oswald! Not you!"

Jim stared at me incredulously once more.

"What?" He whispered.

"Oh, so _now_ you're interested, huh? Yeah," I snapped. "While you and your fucking buddy, Harvey Bullock, were being strung up by your ankles in the meat locker, Falcone had a talk with Oswald. I was there. I was hoping to plead for his life, to make Falcone let him go." I frowned with embarrassment: "Falcone's a lot more intimidating in person."

"What did he do?"

"Nothing to me personally," I admitted. "But Falcone...he has this daunting presence, like he could order the world to kneel at his feet and everyone would be so willing to lick his boots. Oswald told him a secret that would allow Falcone to maintain his empire."

"And in return?" Jim growled. "What did he ask in return?"

I smiled and lovingly answered: "That I not be touched."

"How sweet." Jim retorted sarcastically, rolling his eyes and curling his lip. "Did he say anything else? What was the secret? What does Cobblepot know that Falcone needs in order to keep his empire?"

"There you go again," I said, gesturing to him. "You're back in that interrogation mode."

"I'm not interrogating you. I'm talking to you."

"No, you're talking _at_ me. And I resent you for it."

Jim sighed deeply, trying to maintain his patience. I was intentionally making it hard for him. After all, I'd nearly jumped to my death thinking that Oswald had died, only to realize that the love of my life had nearly met his demise by the hand of my own family. Admittedly, I was feeling just a little vindictive.

"And what secrets are shared between Oswald and Falcone will remain a mystery to both you and myself," I said carelessly. "When Oswald secured my safety much to Falcone's reluctance, I was ordered to leave….I did. Unwillingly, of course. His men had to drag me away, kicking and screaming."

Jim was sitting back on the couch, listening to me. He was split between being the comforting brother that he wanted to be and the cop who needed to know everything, the cop that he felt he always had to be. Detective Gordon and my brother Jim were two completely different people, but two sides of the same coin. Just as I was the two-bit criminal who liked robbing gas stations and mugging old men, but I was still the little sister that tried to help in any way I could.

Jim put his stable, still hand over the trembling pair of mine. I was shaking with anger for reliving the moment in which I was forced to leave, thinking I would never see Oswald again. Sure, I felt fear—how could I have not? But the anger stayed with me, anger for not being able to keep Oswald safe. Call me a mother hen, what-have-you—I felt protective over any of my love interests. Some found it incredibly annoying and emasculating; but Oswald didn't seem to mind. He liked my nurturing spirit.

"I'm sorry for everything that I've put you through, Sylvia," said Jim quietly. "I'm sorry that you've had to experience all of this. I told Oswald Cobblepot to never come back to Gotham. Odds are you will not see him again."

He patted my hands out of comfort, and stood to his feet.

"If you hear anything about Thomas and Martha Wayne's murder from your turf, you'll tell me about it, won't you?" Jim asked softly.

"You know I will." I returned with a promise.

"Thanks." Jim said. He was about to apologize again but thinking it wasn't best, he smiled wistfully at me and then left my apartment.

My apartment was located on the tenth floor. A balcony connected it from the outside. I strolled out, feeling the breeze, and the light sprinkle of rain that continued to fall. A voice called from the back of my mind once more.

 _I could do it._

I could….but instead, I walked back inside. I was tired from the day's events.

In telling me what had happened to him, Jim had restored a reason for living.

I would find Oswald Cobblepot.


	2. Marked

Chapter Two: Marked

Knowing the truth about Oswald Cobblepot, the fact he was still alive had given new meaning for me. The grief of losing a loved one was replaced with the solid ambition of finding and helping him. To keep my brother safe, I made it a point to hate him whenever he and I spoke in present company. It wasn't hard; I just remembered how he used to pick on me when we were kids (taking my toys away, putting gum in my hair, that sort of thing) and played off of that. In the days that followed (while I tried finding where Oswald might have gone) I was still working for Fish Mooney, although I kept my distance.

After all, she had my boyfriend put on the slaughter with Falcone's blessing. If I didn't have to talk to her personally, I was more than grateful. Thankfully, the majority of my work was being a waitress, a bartender, and every now and then, she would grace me with her presence and ask me to spy on people for which I was paid. So I had very little interaction with her.

As I served a patron their beverage, the guy left and was replaced by a large fellow who I immediately recognized as Butch Gilzean. He smiled at me knowingly—it was no shock to anyone that I was still angry for what happened to my Oswald. Mooney could pretend to everyone else that she hadn't ordered for him to be killed, but anyone on the inside of the underworld knew better.

"How are you holding up?" Butch asked with a smile, winking at me.

"Fine until you showed your mug," I answered spitefully as I turned away to collect the glasses left by my drunken customers.

"Was it really that necessary to insult me," he chuckled.

"It wasn't necessary, but I couldn't suppress the urge," I responded, smirking at him. "You want anything or did you come over to antagonize?"

"Can it be both?"

"No," I answered.

"Don't know why you're so salty towards _me_ , babe. I didn't order for your boyfriend to be shot."

"Well, you weren't voting against the decision, were you?" I rounded coldly, leaning forward, hands on the counter.

"How's your brother dealing with it?"

I lied: "I've not spoken to him."

"That's put a damper between you two, huh? Anything I can help with?"

"You could try putting a bullet between your eyes; that might make me sleep a little easier," I suggested callously.

Butch chuckled again, but the smile didn't reach his eyes. Holding up his hands in surrender, he slowly backed away. My temper was flaring and he could see it. My brother and I were similar in that regard; the only difference was that I lacked the restraint. I didn't have a badge to keep my temper in line, see?

"I guess we'll talk later when you're less bitter," Butch said, winking at me.

"Sure." I scoffed.

He started on his merry way, speaking to Fish briefly. I ignored them and continued helping out patrons. Shortly after the fact, Harvey Bullock and my own sainted brother came into the brothel, looking as though they were on a mission. Something case-related, I would bet my life on it. Harvey stopped by the bar, smiling at me expectantly.

"See something you like there, Bullock?" I inquired coolly, wiping the counter with a towel.

"Maybe," said Bullock, smiling at me politely. "Maybe you know something that we don't?"

"What does that imply exactly?"

Bullock chuckled, elbowing Jim playfully in the ribs as he said, "You can tell she's definitely your sister."

"It's probably the lack of enthusiasm," I suggested.

"Probably," Bullock agreed. Seriously, he asked: "Know anything about a couple of child snatchers, taking children off the street?"

"That sounds like a question you should ask Fish," I said coolly, placing the towel on a rack and then leaning over the counter so Bullock leaned forward too—he had a look in his eye like he was interested in more than just talk of business.

Despite the fear of sounding vain, I could admit that I was good-looking. I had the right amount of curves and cleavage to leave a man wanting, and every now and then, I wore make-up even though I didn't need it. I inherited the same cold blue eyes that Jim possessed; the only difference in our appearances was that I'd inherited our mother's hair color: Fire engine red.

Maybe Bullock had a taste for redheads, or he was just playing with my unidentified emotions. Didn't matter though—my heart, eyes, and pussy belonged to one man only and it certainly wasn't Bullock.

"I thought I'd ask you first," said Bullock slyly. "You're the hot tamale around this place, aren't you?"

I looked past him to Jim, saying, "Gotta love your partner, James. Real charmer."

"Yeah," said Jim, lacking enthusiasm. He quickly pulled his partner away, muttering something along the lines of not antagonizing his sister. Bullock mentioned that I was pretty and out of the two of us, I was the better looking sibling. I inwardly smiled as Jim rolled his eyes and pretended to be affronted by the comment. As soon as they'd arrived, one of the waiters had immediately sprung to Fish to let her know that these gentlemen were here for her. She came out of her booth, greeting them both with civility.

"Fancy seeing you two again," said Fish, a mixture of sincerity and irony was evident.

"Still angry with us, Fish?" asked Bullock sweetly as they embraced.

"No," Fish answered (almost sounding genuine). "We're fine, and as for you" (she looked at Jim) "You _intrigue_ me. I knew I would regret killing you the moment I gave the word, but you know me. I'm feisty."

Bullock looked amused as ever; Jim was less than.

"What do you know about a man and a woman abducting street kids on your turf?" Jim questioned dryly.

Fish chuckled, "No foreplay with you, huh. Figures. But you got with the program real quick, didn't you? Killed Penguin your own bad self."

I frowned, closing my eyes in an attempt to assuage the feelings of animosity that started festering. I'd taken it upon myself to leave the bar, giving my shift to one of the waiters who asked to take it for the extra money. When I strolled behind Fish, Jim glanced at me with the hidden anxiety, since he knew what I knew….and what Fish didn't know. However, I played my part well. When Fish glanced at me knowingly, I made a scathing noise and glared at Jim, who appeared apologetic. That, at least, was real.

"I was surprised. Straight arrow like you," Fish pointed out, eyes glinting with wonder.

"I guess you misjudged me," Jim said coolly.

"I guess I did. You're just a little sinner like the rest of us," Fish drawled, stepping forward. "I'm almost kind of sad about that."

Jim looked like he wanted to be anywhere else but there at that moment. If Jim hadn't told me the truth, I'd have almost believed he might have killed Oswald. The look of regret in his eyes was genuine….having other people think he did the deed was almost worse than actually having done the real thing. A pang of pity rose in my chest.

"We're looking for a man and a woman, middle-aged, white," Jim said, diverging from the topic. "Targeting children under the age of 16."

"He used a poisoned pen, if you could believe it," Bullock interjected humorously.

"I remember when the market only called for nice-looking girls," said Fish. "There's a buyer overseas who will take anyone young and healthy."

"Who's they?" Jim asked.

"No body knows."

"What does he want them for?"

"No body knows," said Fish apathetically. "And no body cares."

Jim gave her a less than amused look.

Fish smirked at them and then at the top of her lungs, she shouted "Sylvia!"

I startled, stepping away from the entertainment who were trying to get me on stage to sing and quickly moved towards Fish, who smiled at me. 'Come here', said the Spider to the Fly. And the Fly although reluctant sought to do as she was told.

I grimaced when Fish placed an arm around my shoulders.

"You know I didn't realize you two were related. She's your sister, right?" Fish asked curiously, smirking at Jim, who barely just nodded.

I made a notion to move away from her, but she held me close.

"I can see the resemblance," said Fish softly, smiling between Jim and me. "If I had to guess, this whole ordeal with Penguin has really drawn a wedge between the two of you. I do hope that, in time, you will become close once more." She patted my shoulder, adding remorsefully (if one could call it that), "I know you had warm feelings for that boy, but I just wanted you to know that he was no good for you. He was a no-body."

"Not to me." I breathed. I pushed her away from me, and glared at all three of them. "Not to _me_."

I shoved my shoulder against Jim, moving past them. Fish chuckled darkly at my reaction and Jim looked after me, shocked.

Truth be told, Oswald was a no-body when it concerned society life in Gotham. He was Fish's umbrella boy, and since his disappearance, not much had transpired in regards to finding him. It was like he disappeared off the face of the earth and yet nothing had come of it.

A short moment later as I took a smoke break in the alley where Fish did most of her beatings to discipline the rough characters that worked for her (excluding myself), I heard the door open and slowly turned to see Jim standing without his usual company. Apparently, Bullock had gone forward, heading up on the next lead wherever it might take him. Jim closed the door and stood before me.

"Nice work back there," Jim said quietly. He indicated his shoulder, rubbing it. "You might as well had dislocated my shoulder with how roughly you shoved me."

"Oh stop whining. I barely touched you."

Jim allowed himself a snicker, something I hardly ever heard come out of him. He was an angst-y bastard. I held the cigarette between my index and middle fingers, tapping the end so the ashes fell but they disappeared in the puddles of rainwater. Last night had rained a monsoon.

"She has a point, you know," said Jim softly, looking left and right of the alley to be sure no one was watching—but everyone was watching. I felt eyes on me all the time.

"What point is that?" I asked, my voice hallow.

"He _was_ a no-body."

I shoved Jim against the wall, glaring at him.

"First off, you don't know him. So you don't have the right to talk about him like that." I snapped. I threw the cigarette down, putting it out with the ball of my heel. "And how _dare_ you agree with that woman. She practically made his death a spectacle just for her own amusement."

Jim lowered his eyelids halfway, appearing stoic towards my petty anger. He saw himself in me, in my quick temper. Still, there was that look of compassion. But it was clear that he was a cop first, a brother second...and thirdly, a fiance when it concerned Barbara.

"He can't come back."

"He _will_ come back."

"Why would he?"

"Gotham is his home, and _I_ am here." I snapped.

Jim rolled his eyes, teeth bearing down.

"If he comes back, I'm a dead man." Jim growled, grabbing me by the shoulders and shaking me. "And you—you need to _move on_. Find someone else for Christ's sake, find anyone else. Just let him go."

Jim's eyes were pleading, begging. He was scared for his safety, scared for Barbara. Scared, in general. I felt sorry for him, but selfishly, I wanted my beloved back in my arm's reach. If he didn't come back to Gotham, then I would be going to him. I'd thought about it before, even considered doing it. But Jim had only strengthened my will. What kept me from leaving was Fish—she kept tabs on me constantly, feeling that any moment I would snap and betray her as well.

I just needed to know where to start first. I needed a sign.

"You know," I resigned quietly. "You're right. You're absolutely right."

"I am?" Jim inquired, startled.

I patted his shoulder and then left him standing in the alley, staring at me. I'd make him think that I had given up and wouldn't find Oswald. Just like I made everyone else believe that I thought Oswald was dead. While everyone was scrambling to hide the children from the snatchers that lurked around Gotham streets, I made it my mission to find Oswald.

0.

Fish called me into her office the next day. A waiter had pulled me none too gently from the alley behind the club, and I punched him in the jaw for that error. Fish laughed when she saw it happen, and made the waiter leave. Butch Gilzean stood at her right hand, hands clasped over his front like the usual body guard. I looked at them both before turning to hatefully look at the waiter who quickly closed the door before I gave him a black eye to match.

"You've been aggressive these days with the staff," said Fish smoothly, rolling a pen between her fingers lazily as she sized me up. "Going through the stages of grief, are we?"

"Not quite." I answered quietly, glancing over my shoulder at the waiter who was making his way back to the bar to help out. I turned back to see Butch grinning slyly while Fish observed me with narrowed eyes.

"Should I be worried about you, Sasha?" asked Fish.

"Sylvia."

"Sorry," snickered Fish, bowing her head apologetically. "I keep forgetting your name since you're practically a no-body yourself….just like the person who ratted me out to Major Crimes…." She slowly stood to her feet, and side-stepped around her desk, leaning against it as she continued to eye me.

I said nothing.

"You and Penguin…."

I hissed—Oswald hated being called that….and I hated anyone who made him feel as worthless as she did. Fish saw my resentment towards her, and she smiled because of it.

"That's not the first of my employees you've projected your anger at, Sylvia," said Fish, pointing at the bar to emphasize that I'd actually capped a few of them with blows and punches to the face. "You and your brother have quite the temper, don't you?"

I said nothing, still. Instead, I pressed my lips together, hoping I could formulate some sort of restraint like Jim, but I doubted my confidence. I didn't possess the same discipline, and I was a fighter like him. With Fish taunting me, I was thinking of cutting her with the letter opener that was on her desk.

"What am I to do with you…." Fish cooed.

She stepped towards me, her hand stroking my face. It took my will power not to scratch out her eyes. I shook with hatred, my body quivering. She looked me over with those bold-lined hazel eyes, her features brightening due to the light of the room.

"You have fire," said Fish quietly, tilting my chin up with two of her fingers so I was forced to look her in the eyes. "And you have passion. Two things I've always admired about you, Sylvia—you and I….we're alike."

"Are we?"

The words came out quietly….dangerously. It came out as a whisper, and Fish cocked her head to the side like I'd called her a name with which she was not familiar.

"You can achieve _so_ much, if you'd allow your potential to shine," Fish drawled. "But instead, you'd lower standards for someone like that little snitch….that's all he is, my little girl. A snitch, a no-body, a useless little umbrella boy. And your actions thus far have caused me nothing but squalling."

"Are you firing me?" I asked dully, losing interest.

"What good would that do me?" Fish asked, her breath soft on my lips.

"I thought that's what you were implying," I admitted, searching her eyes for an answer. But I found nothing.

"You're more than welcome to keep working for me, my sweet little girl," Fish cooed, touching my face with both hands. Her grip tightened, and I winced. "But mark my words. The moment I hear you're turning against me, I will have you taken to the pier and shot dead as well. Do I make myself clear?"

"Crystal," I grunted, wincing as she shoved me away and I rubbed my jaw.

"Major Crimes will likely be on their way to ask questions," said Fish, more to Butch than myself. "Make the staff aware. As for this one…." She glared at me. "I'll keep my eye on her."

"Right-o, Boss."

"Is that all?" I questioned, feeling impatient.

Butch gave me a look, wondering perhaps why I always placed myself in the worst position. Fish gave me a calculating look. Butch turned to Fish expectantly.

"Leave us, please." Fish said softly.

Butch nodded and went out the door, closing it. When I turned to look at Fish, she was smiling wickedly. She gestured for me to approach. Reluctantly, I did.

"Major Crimes will definitely want to talk to _you_ ," said Fish, twirling her finger at me. "You're Gordon's sister _and_ Cobblepot's….well, whatever you two were." She sighed deeply, adding, "I'll have to ensure that you will not betray our little secret."

"The secret that Falcone ordered James to kill Oswald, you mean?"

"Yes, child. _That_ secret. So, how will I make sure that you won't deceive me, hmm?"

I bit my lip, hoping to god she would just spare me. The threat of death had long since passed. If she had wanted me killed, she'd have done so with Butch in the room. That way, they could reminisce for days later how great it was to write me off and then I'd be forgotten for the following months that passed. Fish watched me carefully, the gears in her head turning.

"You want me to stay quiet." I told her softly. "Fine. I will. If they ask me questions, I will find something to do and avoid them. But Miss Mooney…." (I'd lost the privilege of calling her 'Fish' the moment Oswald ratted her out) "You needn't worry about me."

"I treated you like my daughter, my own little girl…." Fish stated pointedly. "He's turned you against me, I can see that. There's still a chance for you though, my sweet, sweet child. First, though….you have to show me."

"Show you what?"

"Show me you're still my baby girl," Fish whispered as she stroked my face. "Prove to me that you are still loyal, Sylvia."

"How?" I asked quietly.

I stared at her, uncertainty building inside my stomach. I even felt a little nauseous with the anxiety. I glanced outside to see that Butch had directed everyone's attention in the bar towards this office, the glass walls made it easy to see Fish and me as the blinds had been opened for the audience's viewing purposes.

She grinned, and made a gesture with her hand for me to come to her. She pointed to the floor. Inwardly, I hissed. The idea of kneeling to this bitch was more than I could bear. She wanted me to kneel, to pledge my allegiance to her. Oswald wasn't dead, no—but for her to think I would swallow my pride and my grief for a woman like her after everything she'd done was more than I could handle. When I refused to kneel, she grabbed my hair and forced me down. I grunted, holding the hand that held me captive.

"You're stubborn," sighed Fish, shaking her head. "Or maybe strong-willed. It's hard to know which. Either way, you have become a pain in my side, Sylvia."

"Fish—" I began, but her actions that followed caught the words in my throat.

She picked up the letter opener and placed it against my collar bone, still holding me in place by my hair. I cringed, trying to move away. She was incredibly strong for her size. The letter opener cut into the skin, and I bit my tongue to keep from screaming. I would not give her any satisfaction.

Too many mistakes have been made on all of our parts—on my part," Fish growled. "And an example needs to be made."

"You'll never forget who did this to you…." Fish growled. "It'll be a constant reminder to me never to trust your sweet little face ever again."

Pain—constant pain. The metal reached bone, I was certain of it.

The blade continued to slice through new skin. Desperate for it to stop, I lunged forward, shoving Fish into the desk. I tasted copper. She screamed, and smacked my face. The force of it threw me to the ground. She was on me in a matter of seconds.

The door burst open, and Butch piled inside with three other goons; he pulled Fish off me. Even though I was crying in pain, I was thankful that no tears had fallen. I could leave her with dignity if permitted to leave at all. The sting on my collar bone made me put my hand on it, and when I withdrew, I saw blood on my fingers.

"Little bitch bit me…." said Fish, holding her thigh.

"Boss…. _F_ _alcone said—_ " Butch warned.

Fish glared at me.

"Get out," Fish growled, gritting her teeth.

"You're not going to kill me?" I asked, slowly getting to my feet.

"I should," Fish snarled. "I _should._ It's because of Falcone that you're living right now. It's because of _him_ that you are not lying dead on my carpet. But you don't come back here, not ever. Do you understand me?"

I nodded. She looked at Butch. Butch nodded. He grabbed my arm and pulled me out of the office and then threw me out into the alley. I hurried away, not looking the gift horse in the mouth.

.0

I stood in the mirror of my bathroom, cleaning the wound. The antiseptic stung, like it was acid eating a hole through the bone. I had been grateful that Oswald had requested that no harm come to me (Fat lot of good it did, though). I was happy I was still alive. But as I cleaned off my collar bone, I saw the clear hallow design of a fish, carved into my flesh. The same design of the fucking neon red sign outside of her club.

The fucking bitch had marked me.


	3. Mine

Chapter Three: Mine

The Child Snatchers were still on the loose, taking children, snatching them up, and putting them only god knows where for only god knows what reason. When the Waynes were murdered, it was like the world became more chaotic than usual. Crime was not just in the streets or alleys; it was in the nicer parts of town. I stood outside my balcony, looking down at the bustling traffic. From above, it appeared calm, almost tranquil. When walking on the sidewalks, one needed five pairs of eyes to keep from being mugged. I should know.

I held the product of my latest spree, a leather black purse with fur lining. It had belonged to the wife of some greasy politician; the contents consisted of a checkbook, credit card, and a huge wad of cash that consisted of hundred-dollar bills. She had appeared casual, a simple woman with a messy brunette bun. She didn't seem to be the normal target—and that's what stood out to me about her.

Some people marked the rich types for the best loot. I always went after the ones who tried to look inconspicuous. I used the same method myself when I was out and about. I didn't carry a purse or a handbag; I kept all my valuables on me. If someone wanted to get close enough to rob me, they'd have a beating to follow. Case and point: if a woman carried a hand bag wearing casual clothes and not faux fur, they were pretty easy to loot.

I massaged one shoulder while I picked through the purse—the broad had landed an unexpected blow and while I'd come out mostly unscathed, the soreness was starting to kick in.

I was just about to dig into the deeper pockets before I heard a knock on the door. I shoved the bag inside the refrigerator (who would look for anything in the refrigerator unless they were a hungry burglar), and made my way towards the front of the apartment.

I wore only a night slip; before answering the second knock, I threw on a bath robe, and tied it off. As I did, there was a third knock. This time it was heavier, more force.

"I'm coming, god damn it."

I unlocked the dead bolt, chain lock, and door handle, only opening it halfway before I saw a man dressed in khakis, and what appeared to be a knitted sweater with a yellow shirt underneath. His raven hair was a mess, and once they saw me, his blue-green eyes reflected my own familiarity.

"Oswald." I breathed.

I knew he had been alive. But that didn't stop me from fainting.

.0.

"Sylvia..."

I felt a hand patting my cheek, gentle taps but taps none the less. It occurred to me that I was lying on the couch, head on the arm. Strangely, my head didn't hurt, so I assumed that he'd caught me prior to my episode. He was knelt beside me, face full of worry.

"Oswald." I mumbled.

Jim had told me, and I knew it. I had even believed him. But I had been wondering whether I wanted to believe Jim and so had forced myself to tag on the beautiful lie, hoping that I wouldn't find out the truth. Seeing Oswald in the flesh made it more real, more vivid. I nearly wanted to faint again.

"No, no, no...Sylvia, look at me."

Oswald moved awkwardly to his feet and sat on the couch beside me. He took my hands and pulled me up so I wouldn't faint again. I felt light-headed and breathless.

"You're alive…." I said quietly, still in disbelief. _Come on, girl. He's alive—you should be jumping up and down!_ I reached out to touch him. When I caressed his face, he placed his hand over mine. I blinked back tears, joyful tears.

"I am," Oswald insisted, chuckling a little.

"What…." I fiddled with the sweater. "What are you wearing?"

"Not important," said Oswald, waving his hand dismissively.

"Where have you been?"

"That's more relevant," Oswald commented. "Did Gordon tell you anything?"

"Gordon?"

"Your brother," Oswald clarified.

"Oh! Yeah—no…I mean, he told me that he was supposed to kill you." I said, trying to rummage out the fogginess and clear my head. "Took you to the pier."

Oswald smiled when I couldn't say anymore. Knowing I cared enough made him feel better, I suppose. I touched his sweater again, looking it over, following the fabric from his shoulders down his arms. He watched me furtively, eyes growing with something of love and affection and maybe more. I looked at his wrists; on the cuffs of the shirt underneath, there was blood. I was certain it wasn't his.

"You've been through hell and back, haven't you?" I whispered.

He quickly shoved the sleeves of the sweater of the bloody yellow cuffs, hoping that I would forget. But how could I?

"It's nothing."

"Is it yours?" I asked softly.

Oswald said nothing, looking at me. Like a dog who had been kicked one too many times and now was about to be scolded by its new master, Oswald's eyes were pleading. They tugged at my heart strings.

"Is it?" I asked.

"No." Oswald answered in a voice softer than a whisper. "It's not."

"Those aren't your clothes either, I bet."

"No," Oswald confirmed. "They are not."

He quickly opened to his mouth to say something else, but I put my hand over it. His eyes widened with surprise, hands raising to take my wrists. I smiled kindly; a warm feeling I had for him already, but something more simmered deep inside my core.

He killed people to get to Gotham. I had watched him once before beat the shit out of a man just because Butch Gilzean asked if he wanted to have a go. Such stamina, such _raw_ brutality. There was blood on his hands, literally on his clothes. Oswald looked at me curiously, lips parting slightly as I lowered my hand.

"How many?" I asked.

"At least four," Oswald quietly said, shrugging uncertainly, "I lost count to be honest."

"You've killed four people?" I breathed.

"Not without reason," Oswald stammered, getting to his feet. "If I had any other choice, I—"

I snatched him by the knitted sweater he wore and pulled it down so he fumbled back down on the couch. He stared at me like I was someone else, as though I'd evolved in something scary but simultaneously brilliant.

Burning inside my core was a heat I hadn't felt before. No man had ever made me feel like I would lose control of my baser instincts. I shoved my mouth onto his before he could utter another word and he let out a gasping moan when I pushed him on his back. His fingers interlaced together behind me, grazing up my spine as I straddled him. They lined along the clasp of my bra; I felt the smirk on his mouth against my own.

"I've missed you," I told him in between pauses as we kissed.

"I've missed you too," Oswald returned breathlessly.

His fingers burned into my skin when he grabbed my thighs.

"I want you," I said, my voice hoarse. I was pining for him, the ache between my legs becoming more painful than pleasing.

Oswald chuckled, "I didn't think murder would turn you on…." He wasn't complaining though; I could tell he wanted me too. The instant I had tackled him onto the couch, there was a tightness in his pants that couldn't be explained by wrongly fitted khakis.

I ignored him, but felt the same way. I could have seen it coming, to be honest. I felt frisky after my first mugging when I was seventeen years old, and the idea of murder—even the mention of it—made my loins ache. I had never taken a life, but the thought had always been so tempting. Having a cop for a brother normally offered a certain restraint. But Oswald….I would have loved to see him at work.

It didn't help that on the television, a horror movie was being shown. It featured torture, and the screaming in the background of my apartment made me feel more horny than I cared to admit.

Hidden behind my black satin panties, my pussy was hot and aching for friction. I began grinding my center against the stiff bulge in a stranger's khakis, smirking at Oswald when he groaned, his eyes fluttering as a wave of pleasure shot through him like an electric pulse. His hands that had been resting lightly on my thighs now gripped them.

"I want you," I said again quietly. "Do you want _me_?"

"More than anything." Oswald managed, his voice was a lot more hoarse than I expected.

"I can tell."

I lowered my hand between us, rubbing his hard-on.

He wasn't hiding any of his lovely sounds from me. His panting, sighs of both relief and sharp intakes, and moans fueled the sexual attraction. His sounds were making me wet, and I craved more of him.

"Whose clothes are these anyway?" I asked curiously, sliding myself down his legs to remove the pants first.

He crossed his arms behind his head—looking more confident, like a king. As I unzipped the pants and pulled them down with his shorts, his erection sprung forward, and I smirked sheepishly. So that's what I did to him. Nice.

"I don't know their names," Oswald told me dismissively.

"Didn't ask for them," I returned smartly. "Why did you kill them?"

"Is that something you really want to talk about right now…."

Oswald's words were caught in his throat when I leaned forward and kissed the tip of his cock, licking the precum like it was a delectable treat (and it was). I looked up at him, smiling but expectant. I wanted to hear him talk while I sucked him off; to hear his voice attempt to sound calm and narrative in between moans of the pleasure.

"One called me _that_ name," Oswald hissed. He meant 'Penguin'. "So I smashed his head over with a beer bottle in the truck."

"Mm—drinking while driving is illegal," I mused. "Guess he deserved it." I licked his shaft and Oswald inhaled sharply.

My air of dismissal for the fatality seemed to strike Oswald's fancy; his hands made fists on the couch in an attempt to maintain his restraint.

I moved forward, straddling his waist. His cock twitched excitedly against my underwear, the heat of my core calling out to it. Oswald looked up at me; I recognized the admiration—and now I saw something more. His pupils were full blown, completely covering the aquamarine irises as his desire was revealed to me tenfold. I took the hem of both his shirts and pulled them up; he sat up briefly and allowed me to shed the last of his clothes, throwing them over the side of the couch, and lying back down.

"What about the others?"

"I tried to hold the other gentleman for ransom," Oswald said, shrugging modestly when I grinned at him.

"Who would have paid?"

"His mother."

"Did she?"

Oswald chuckled, "She didn't take me seriously."

"Are you kidding?"

"I can't make this stuff up."

"Poor kid."

"He was a pretentious ass," Oswald protested.

"Far be it for me to say otherwise," I mewed.

I touched the tip of my fingertips along his neck; he craned his head back, allowing me full access to it. My thumbs lined his throat. I had the urge to choke him for some reason, and I gave in to the little temptation, but only applying pressure on either side. He closed his eyes, the corner of his mouth lifting in guilty pleasure as I started grinding my clothed sex against his full erection.

"Is that their blood on your clothes, then?"

Oswald shook his head slightly, eyes still closed in the pleasure of the friction.

"No….that belongs to someone else."

I leaned forward, and kissed his nose. He opened his eyes.

"Anyone I know?" I asked mischievously.

Oswald drawled, "One of Mooney's thugs saw me. He was about to bring me in."

I lifted myself up, sliding down my underwear and stepping out before straddling him again. My robe was still tied off, concealing everything but my sex was completely exposed to him. He licked his lips when my wet pussy came in contact with his cock. His jaw clenched and I heard him strain a moan.

"I hope you killed the bastard," I said coldly.

"What a devious mind, you have," Oswald chuckled. The small laugh died a little when I started grinding my pussy slowly along his shaft.

"I want it just as badly as you do," I told him softly, my fingers grazing down his chest.

He wore so many suits that I hadn't given the thought that he had any muscle—but lo and behold, he was lean and muscular.

"But since this is going to be our first time together," I continued softly, "I want it to last as long…." (I kissed his neck) "as possible."

He caught my lips with his, engaging in another tongue seeking battle in my mouth. He pressed the tip of his cock inside my heat, extracting an involuntary moan from me. He chuckled, a different kind of laugh that I hadn't heard before. It was low, throaty almost. And it was sexy as hell. My stomach rolled with a discomfort that was not completely unpleasant.

His hands fiddled with the tie of my robe.

"You're overdressed, my dear," Oswald whispered with an affluent confidence.

"You can undress me when I say you can." I whispered back.

He growled deep within his throat in protest, but the twitch of his cock against my sex said he liked it. He met my little grinding dance with his own small thrusts, his face flush with heat as was mine. My pussy ached for him, the muscles inside clenching hopelessly for a cock to swallow. _His_ cock.

He moved my robe side, slipping his hands up my body to hold my hips. His thumbs inched up to feel the lines of my ribs, then behind my back. The clasp of my bra became undone.

"Take it off, Sylvia." Oswald told me.

It wasn't a request. It was commanding, and I felt my knees become weak.

I began to do what he asked, but he caught my hands in his.

"Do it while standing." Oswald said, sitting up. He kissed my bottom lip. "Reveal yourself to me. Slowly."

Between coming to my apartment and being shoved onto the couch by my own doing, Oswald had built enough confidence to start demanding things of me. And I was all about it. I wanted him and he knew it. I did as I was told, standing in front of the couch. He turned so he sat upright, leaning against the back of the couch, eyes front, with his cock on display.

He gestured for me to start.

It'd be the first time he actually saw me completely naked.

There was never going to be a more perfect moment to commemorate our relationship than him coming back from the dead. I hadn't been a virgin in years, but I felt like one now, slowly untying my robe His eyes narrowed as he watched me, like he was doing his best to savor every detail of my body. The intensity of his gaze made me flustered. My hands even began to shake. I'd never had anyone actually watch me the way he did, and suddenly, I was the self-conscious one.

"Don't stop." Oswald encouraged, stroking his steadily growing erection.

I slowly took off the robe, first at the shoulders then it seemed to take forever for the fabric to puddle at my feet. He squeezed and palmed his member while watching me, and that made me even hornier. I didn't even think it was possible. I had lost my shyness as I approached him, but then when his eyes became cold, I suddenly remembered the mark Fish had given me, right on my collar bone.

He touched the lining of my collar, his eyes becoming dangerously bright as he looked into mine.

"What is that?" Oswald asked quietly.

Humiliation filled my face, and I wanted to crawl into a ball.

"Mooney." I barely managed.

He slid the pad of his fingertip over it and I cringed.

"She did that to you?" Oswald questioned.

"Yes."

"When."

"A couple days ago." I answered.

He started shaking. I'd never seen him so angry. He suddenly stood, looking like he might go out starting a fight. His lips were pursed, eyes wide in fury.

"Oswald…."

"How _dare_ she lay a hand on you—"

"Oz…."

"After I specifically, _specifically_ told Falcone—" He began to rant, and he wasn't even making full sentences any more. Oswald Cobblepot in the full nude was pacing furiously before he suddenly turned on his heel and headed into the kitchen.

I walked after him and saw him digging into the silverware.

"What are you doing?" I asked.

He didn't answer me.

I watched him awkwardly and painfully get to his knees, crawling under the kitchen table, and it occurred to me why he was so infuriated. Fish had punished him for betraying her in her own way, smashing his knee to the point where he now noticeably limped everywhere he went. And now, Mooney had punished me for Oswald being a snitch while I, personally, had done nothing wrong.

Oswald didn't seem to care what had been done to him, but seeing the pain she'd caused me—he wouldn't literally stand for it.

When he stood back up, he was holding my spare gun that had been taped under the table.

"Oswald…." I warned.

"She's _dead_ ," Oswald panted dangerously, checking to make sure it was loaded (it was) and snapping the barrel shut. "She's dying tonight. That's all there is to it. She is _not_ allowed to harm you—no one is—and the moment Falcone finds out, she is dead, but it will be by **my** hand, not _his_!"

I grabbed him by the shoulders, shoved him against the wall and simultaneously took the gun out of his hand, and placed it on the counter. He looked at me as though I had done the worst thing possible, but really, in my opinion, it was in the best interest of everyone involved.

"Sylvia—"

"Stop, okay? Just stop..." I told him.

"She hurt you….."

"I know." I acknowledged it.

He was still trembling with rage.

He startled when I kissed him. And it happened like I hoped it would happen. His anger at Fish, at anyone that had tried to hurt me, tear us apart, or pull me away from him, spurred him on. He switched us so my back hit the wall; I grunted with the impact, then became lost in the passionate kissing that followed. He would do anything for me—kill for me—die for me—and I knew it.

Naked in the kitchen, we were, and that seemed to just make things even hotter. His hands grabbed my ass; his cock slid up and down between the lips of my heat. I whimpered in need.

"Jump." Oswald ordered.

He held fast to my thighs as I did what I was told and my body was compressed between his and the wall. I heard him stifle a groan of pain with the weight bearing down on his knee, but for the moment, he didn't seem to give a shit.

"Tell me how much you need me inside of you right now," Oswald asked, his cock teasing my entrance.

I honestly didn't think he was the type for dirty talk, but oh my lord, was he already good at it. The natural rasp of his voice, the hoarseness that took over when he was plagued by his own desire only made me want him more. I was reduced to puddles before some could even be made.

I whimpered again when he teased me.

"I want you to fuck me, Oz," I panted.

"Do you?" Oswald disdainfully, smirking.

Arrogance seemed to suit him well. And it did things to me.

"Yes. I beg of you…."

He pulled away and my feet touched the floor. I bit my lip when he tilted his head to the side, a gesture for me to follow him. I did, right into my bedroom. I entered into the room first, turning on the light, and heard the door close sharply. When I turned, I saw a dangerous glint in his eye.

"Kneel down." Oswald ordered.

Eagerly, I did (even though it gave me flashbacks of the incident in Fish's office).

He palmed himself, grinning down at me.

"Take me in your mouth."

I complied wholeheartedly. On my knees, I crawled to him. My lips closed around the tip of his cock and I heard him exhale in relief. My tongue lathered his shaft with my spit and I eagerly bobbed my head up and down his cock. All I wanted was to hear him moan. I let him go with a _pop_.

"I didn't tell you to stop." Oswald said calmly.

"I prefer it that you sit down." I returned innocently.

He smiled at me and sat down on the edge of the bed. When he did, I resumed my ministrations of pleasing him. One hand laced through my hair, massaging my scalp as I sucked and licked him like a delicious lollipop. His scent was captivating, a mix of expensive cologne, and his musk. His hips began to respond to me, cock thrusting into my mouth. I slipped my hands underneath him, grabbing his ass. Oswald moaned, and slowly lied down on his back, becoming lost to the sensations.

I felt his cock twitch, and I licked him one last time before I took the initiative. He looked at me when I had stopped but smirked when I mounted his cock. He placed his palm over my sex, feeling my heat, my pool of desire. I'd become wetter as I sucked him off; the knowledge of this made him chuckle.

"She gave that to you because of me, didn't she?" Oswald asked softly, looking up at me with the same mixture of anger, love, and lust. The anger was all reserved for Fish, of course.

"Yes." I answered honestly. "But don't think on that now."

I took his hard-on in my hand, and slowly slid him inside of me. His lips parted, his eyes rolled in the back of his head as my tight pussy adjusted to him. He was a godly sight, the way he didn't hold back.

"So wet…." Oswald groaned. He touched my hips, his thumbs caressing the bone.

"Only for you." I uttered. I let out a moan myself when I felt him fill me completely.

In the bedroom, there were no sounds but those of our voices and skin meeting skin. It was hot and heavy, and my climax was reaching, just _reaching_ and begging to be met. It was so close, I could almost taste it, and it had me begging.

"Want me to take over?" Oswald asked breathlessly.

"Please." I answered.

Without moving out of me, he pushed me back, grasped my hips and pulled me to him as he pushed inside of me. I let out a pleasurable keen; he grinned like a Cheshire cat. He was faster than I thought he would be, and by no means was I complaining. He slammed inside of me so hard, I thought I would become a puddle. My fingers raked the bed sheets; he snatched them in one hand and held them above my head.

"You have _no_ idea," Oswald grunted, "how long I have been waiting to do this."

"I can imagine," I mused, my little giggle cut short when he clamped his other hand over my mouth.

A fresh wave of desire flushed through me. My eyes were wide, and he saw my excitement.

"You like this, don't you," Oswald breathed into my ear, grinning mischievously.

My pussy clenched around him in positive response. I was utterly helpless in movement, his body pressed against mine, my hands ill-disposed, and any of my vocal responses muffled by his hand. The powerless feeling should have frightened me but I was enthralled. My toes curled, my breathing became shallow, almost nonexistent. Just as my climax was reaching for its peak, his thrusts were becoming less rhythmic, more sloppy, and harder.

"Mm in mm me."

Oswald looked at me curiously, lifting his hand from my mouth.

"What?"

"Come inside me," I panted.

He pushed deep inside of me a few more times, enough that my back arched and my head tossed back against the mattress; his hand lined my neck, choking me slightly as I keened. My body shook, my breathing became restricted, and all the blood rushed to my head. But my body sang. I opened my eyes to see Oswald experiencing the same strength of an orgasm, coming inside of me. His body dead weight as he collapsed.

He kissed the marking on my collar bone, my throat, and then kissed me gently but passionately on the lips. I returned it, hearing him whisper only one word.

' _Mine._ '


	4. Friday Night Fight

Chapter Four: Friday Night Fight

A/N: _This was, by far, one of the most thrilling chapters to write. So much fun! Enjoy!_

* * *

We were snuggled together, sleeping. Or at least, he was. He lied on his back, an arm wrapped around my backside while the other rested on his chest. My head rested in the crook of his neck, one of my legs between his. It was still night fall, the moonlight peeking through the drapes. His breathing was rhythmic...slowly in…. slowly out….and he didn't snore (which was a plus). His face was relaxed, sleeping with a small smile. I took credit for that smile. The steady rise and fall of his chest nearly had me falling back to sleep until I heard my cell phone ringing off the hook in the other room.

 _That might be Jim,_ I thought.

I reluctantly slid out of Oswald's embrace. When he stirred, I kissed his shoulder and he made a quiet 'mm' before turning towards me and seemingly falling back to sleep.

 _Sweet baby_.

He pulled all kinds of emotions and thoughts from me. One moment, I wanted to fuck him six days until Sunday, and in another moment, I wanted to shield him from all the harm of the world like a mother. He didn't seem to mind my protective, nurturing side. If anything, he liked it. I watched him for a moment, pulling the covers over him.

My cell phone rang again for the tenth time. Suddenly irritated for the obvious reasons, I strode into the living room and picked up the phone.

"What?" I answered briskly.

Jim's voice hollered from the other side, "I've been trying to call you for the past three hours!"

Realizing this wasn't going to be a quick 'hi, bye' conversation, I bent down to the living room floor, grabbed my robe, tied it off and sat on the couch, placing my feet on the coffee table. I smirked when I glanced at the condition of my thighs; much like my back, Oswald's fingernails had dug into them like crazy when I had been riding him, and bruises had already started to appear.

No complaints on my end, of course.

"Are you still there!"

"Calm down," I snapped. "I'm here. What the hell is wrong with you?"

"Did something happen a few days ago?" Gordon demanded.

"Can you be more specific? This is Gotham—shit happens all the time."

"Between you and Mooney."

I frowned, sighing. I lowered my feet off the table. So much for being relaxed.

"We had a disagreement," I admitted calmly. "But nothing I can't handle."

"Harvey went over to her place to follow a lead—"

"And she mentioned little old me?" I assumed sarcastically. "Color me flattered."

"WHAT HAPPENED!"

I raised my eyebrows. His voice sounded all too close to be on the phone. In fact, it seemed to be not just coming from the phone but down the hall of my apartment. Curious, I stood up slowly and just as I reached the front door, I saw Jim through the peep hole, holding the phone to his ear.

"You're angry, Jim—I get it, but…."

"Is it true!"

"Is _what_ true?" I questioned—he was starting to piss me off with his demands.

"Open the door, Sylvia."

I rolled my eyes.

"OPEN THE DOOR!"

"Okay, for god's sake—you're going to wake up the whole fucking complex," I snapped. I hung up on him, tossing my phone to the couch. When I opened the door, I saw a very haggard-looking brother of mine. He was breathing heavily, eyes cold and dangerous, like a dog who'd been vexed too many times.

He brushed past me, furiously storming inside.

"Come in, I guess."

He sensed my sarcasm, but that seemed to only further piss him off.

"Are you _looking_ for trouble, Sylvia?" Jim questioned harshly as I closed the door and locked it.

"No. Are **you**?" I retorted, gesturing to him roughly. "You're barging in here like a rabid dog—someone will likely file a domestic violence complaint and then you're—"

"Why did you bite Fish?" Jim interrogated, hands on his hips.

"She tried to make me kneel," I replied coldly.

"What?"

I rolled my eyes, saying, "Ah—shocker—you don't know the whole situation, do you? You hear for a second that I bite the little bitch, and you come running over to _my_ apartment, throwing accusations in my face." I made jazz-hands, adding contemptuously, " _So_ original."

Jim shook his head, saying, "She had good information on one of our leads, Sylvia—a really good informant. On account of _your assault—_ and that's what it is, **assault** , she wouldn't help us."

I glared at him.

"She wouldn't help _you_." I snarled, thrusting a finger into his chest. "If Bullock went alone, she'd probably melt like butter."

"You're messing with me, aren't you?"

"The hell I am," I hissed. "She wanted me to fucking _bow_ to her, to tell her that I belonged to her."

"Why didn't you?" Jim growled.

" _Because I don't belong to her_ ," I spat, harshly pointing towards the door, indicating the bitch in question. "And I will not fucking degrade myself in such a way even if I was pledging my undying loyalty to the monster. She forced me on my _knees,_ pulled my hair—and to make an example of me, she fucking did **this**!"

I pushed aside my robe and revealed to him the mark she had carved on my skin. Jim stared at it, fire immediately extinguished. I straightened my robe back, glaring at him.

"You're a complete jack ass," I said, shaking my head. "You know that?"

Jim approached me, hands out in surrender.

"Sylvia…."

"Fuck you, Jim."

"Sylvia, she didn't—"

"She didn't tell you? Why the fuck would she?" I responded vehemently. "What would she have gained from that?"

"I…."

I held up my hand, closing my eyes in an attempt to calm myself. Jim looked at me reproachfully.

"She did that to you, then you bit her," Jim said softly, looking at me apologetically.

"Yes," I answered truthfully, crossing my arms.

"Why did this even happen?"

"I already told you—She wanted me to prove that I still belonged to her," I returned sarcastically. "The fact is, I never did. I was never _hers_. Despite what's been carved into my chest, it's not been carved in stone. Even if it was, it is a lie."

Jim frowned. He placed his hands on my shoulders.

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be."

"But I am."

I smiled at him. He shifted uncomfortably on his feet. I offered him a drink and he was grateful. He sat on the couch, looking at the television as it played a romantic comedy. I hadn't been watching it—it switched from horror to comedy every hour or so. Jim thanked me for the glass of wine, and I sat beside him.

He glanced at my cell phone, noticing several missed calls.

"You've not checked your messages," he noted the obvious.

"I've been busy."

"Doing what?"

I shrugged, saying, "Not much."

And then we both heard it. The bedroom door clicked shut. Jim and I turned to see (thankfully) a fully clothed Oswald in black pajamas coming out. He appeared very much awake, and after listening to our less than quiet conversation, seemed to realize that Jim was here.

And the moment, Jim saw Oswald, my brother was on his feet. I quickly stood, but was too late before he snatched Oswald by the collar of his shirt and slammed him against the bedroom door.

I scolded him ("Jim!") but that didn't do any good as Jim bared his teeth and glared at Oswald, who shook like a leaf.

"WHY DID YOU COME BACK!" Jim shouted.

"I could not stay away," Oswald stammered nervously. "I-I also wanted to speak with you…"

He inadvertently glanced at me, but Jim noticed. His jaw became tenser, eyes blown with rage.

"If Falcone finds out you're alive, he'll kill us both!"

"Gotham is my home," Oswald replied, smiling weakly.

"I should have _killed_ you!"

"Jim!" I snapped. I pushed him away from Oswald, to no success of mine. Jim just shoved me away.

"I should put a bullet in your head right now!" Jim bellowed, gesticulating angrily—although he did let him go.

"JIM!"

"SHUT UP, SYLVIA!" Jim growled, glaring at me. "You know what can happen if Falcone finds out that he's alive! He's going to kill us both—and hell, even you! You've been—he's been here and—"

"Calm the fuck down," I ordered. "He's been with me for the past two nights."

Jim seemed incoherent after finding out that bit of information, a mad dog with rabies, foaming at the mouth—that's the image I had of him if he was an animal.

Jim looked furiously at Oswald.

"I should kill you right now…."

"You'd have every right to do so—"

"Don't tempt me," Jim breathed.

"For fuck's sake…." I muttered, shaking my head. "I'm getting a drink."

Oswald and Jim looked at me then at each other as I passed into the kitchen.

"You can kill me—but you won't," said Oswald quickly, his voice shaking and body trembling. That adrenaline rush did wonders for him, I bet. "You won't because you're a good man. And you may be the only good man in Gotham."

"Ain't that the fucking truth," I muttered, rolling my eyes.

"That's why I want to help you."

"I don't need your help," growled Jim.

"But you need it." Oswald retorted. "That _vile_ creature, Fish Mooney, Falcone, the police, and not even your own partner trust you. They'll _always_ hide the truth from you. But not me. Never. You saved my life."

I poured a whiskey.

"God knows I wish I hadn't," Jim snarled.

 _A little more whiskey than that, yep, that looks good._

To prove a point (I am guessing), Oswald stepped towards the kitchen, took the gun that I had placed on the counter the other night after he threatened to disembowel Mooney, and handed it over to Jim who stared at him.

"Kill me now," Oswald ordered, handing him the gun. "Or _trust_ me."

 _Maybe I should not even bother with a glass—the bottle itself will do for tonight. It's the weekend, anyway, I'll just sleep in on Saturday._

Jim approached Oswald, eyes wide. I turned to them, a little uncertain of what might happen. A breath of relief escaped me when Jim snatched the gun and threw onto the kitchen table, looking more or less annoyed that Oswald had even offered such an option in the first place.

"I told you there's a war coming, Jim," said Oswald confidently. "There will be so many deaths. So many. You want to help Gotham? I can help you; I can be your secret agent."

"Until Falcone finds out you're _alive_ ," Jim barked.

"No one looks for a dead man, hm." Oswald countered.

"This war—what are you talking about, why would there be a war?"

"As you know, war is just politics by other means. And isn't politics just money talking?"

"Talking about what?"

Oswald chuckled, "Arkham, of course."

Jim stared at him. Oswald waited for him to cross check for credibility but none came. They heard me sipping from the bottle, and both gentlemen turned to look in my direction. By the time they'd finished arguing or whatever one could call it, I was pretty tipsy.

"Secret agent…." Jim muttered more to himself than to anyone in particular. "Falcone could come after the both us— _will_ come after us...and you're staying with her." He gestured to me. "That doesn't exactly put my mind at ease, Cobblepot."

I held up my hands, walking between them.

"Whoa, leave me out of this."

"You've put your life in danger by harboring him," Jim growled, pointing harshly at Oswald who looked a little insulted.

"Fuck you, Jim," I snapped, turning to look at him. "You're a fucking cop, and you put _me_ in danger any time you arrest someone."

"Fish Mooney…." Jim reminded.

"That's a different issue," I argued. "She wanted me to bow to her, to kneel down and say that I belonged to her—well, harsh fact of life, sweet heart, I do not belong to her. I never did. She wasn't even the reason I started working there in the first place!"

Jim glanced at Oswald, knowingly.

"And," I added coldly, "I'm not swearing allegiance to a woman who tells _my_ brother to whack off my boyfriend. It's lunacy!"

"You're in danger," growled Jim. "You leave now, I can protect you."

"Funny," I retorted, "I feel safer with Oswald than I have _ever_ felt with you!"

Jim stared at me incredulously. Oswald appeared shocked as well.

"Sylvia, listen to me," Jim coaxed, ignoring Oswald, as he approached me and placed his hands on my shoulders gently. "You bit Fish Mooney, and she carved her symbol into you. Then you harbor the very person she tried to kill. You're in a great deal of trouble—thanks to _him_."

"I'm _right_ here. I can hear you." Oswald pointed out.

"Shut up!" Jim lashed out.

"STOP YELLING AT HIM!"

Oswald and Jim both appeared shocked at my shrieking. It caught Jim by surprise, at least, shutting him up.

Jim rubbed his temple, looking like he might explode from his internal frustrations. Then he seemed to stop himself as he stared at Oswald for a moment, then turned to me. He looked me up and down quickly, and frowned when he saw the bruises on my thighs, and even the redness along my neck.

"What the hell have you two been doing?" Jim questioned darkly.

Oswald blushed a deep shade of red.

"Nothing you'd want to know about, big brother," I returned slyly, smirking at him as he, too, flushed a deep shade of red.

"I'll call you later," said Jim. "And we'll talk more."

"Sure, we will."

He glanced at me uncomfortably, then glared at Oswald before leaving the apartment as quick as his legs could carry him. I turned to Oswald who smiled.

"That couldn't have gone better," he snickered.


	5. The Contract

Chapter Five: The Contract

The moment Fish exiled me was also the day I was fired. Since then, I had been wandering the streets, looking for work. Gotham was funny in that sense—there was work literally everywhere especially for a girl as lovely as myself, but I wasn't interested in fucking or pole dancing. So, ultimately, I was a waitress again. The humor of it was that two weeks after I'd been hired as a waitress, Oswald was hired there as well, as a dishwasher. Except, he went by the alias, 'Paolo'.

Lou, the owner, was a bit of a shit pile. Business was booming, and despite paying me below minimum wage, he was still complaining about how the business wasn't everything it was meant to be and there was money to be had. As a waitress, I could only spare him the look of apathy. I couldn't give two shits about his business, the restaurant, or why Salvatore Maroni always chose this spot as his wine-and-dine area.

The latter always came in for dinner, and was seated at the most open table. Watching the Don himself, I didn't think much of his presence. Oswald, on the other hand, listened closely to these conversations about this arising plan for Arkham. I saw the manager more than once chewing him out for listening to a particular conversation about robbing and looting one of Falcone's warehouses. Seeing the men being seated by the garcon, I took my pad and pen and headed towards Maroni's table. Not before being stopped by Lou, who snatched my wrist.

The very action itself made Oswald frown in protest. I looked at Lou expectantly.

"Be particularly polite with these people, Sasha. Don Maroni makes up for most of my profits, you know."

"My name is Sylvia," I corrected. I jerked my hand out of his grip. "And I'm always polite."

I smiled at him sarcastically, then I continued on my way.

The Italian boss, large in build as was his appetite, looked at me curiously. Prominent chin, stern brown eyes. Jim called him a 'hothead'. He certainly looked the type.

He looked me up and down, more out of minding my presence than looking at the goods. I glanced at the kitchen, knowing Oswald was not listening to the manager who was giving him shit for eavesdropping—Oswald met my gaze, and I smiled gently before turning to the three men at the table.

Don Maroni was easily recognizable. His stern expression was replaced with an easy-going affect as he turned to me in his chair while I listed off the specials. His regular companion, Frankie Carbone, had a dirty smile on his face, which I intentionally made a point to ignore. Wearing a red and white dress made my eyes pop, and it was the only reason I liked it. Having men stare at me was annoying, but one became used to it.

"What do _you_ recommend?" Maroni asked, smiling at me politely.

"You eat here enough," I told him, placing my pen in my apron. "I should be asking you that question."

Maroni chuckled, prodding Frankie in the stomach. It wasn't hard to entertain this don.

"I'll have a Negroni—it's so good with seafood. Have you ever had one?" Maroni asked, looking at me genuinely curious.

"No." I answered, taking my pen out once more and writing down his order.

"You don't drink?"

"I'm more or less a vodka girl, Don Maroni," I answered politely.

"Do you prefer Sex on the Beach or a Screwdriver?" Frankie questioned.

Boy, this guy was _full_ of sexual innuendo.

"I prefer to mix them together."

"What kind of drink would you call that?" Maroni asked, chuckling lowly.

"I don't think it has a name," I returned, shrugging. "Either way, it tastes amazing."

"How long have you been working here?" Maroni asked. "I don't recognize you."

"A couple of weeks." I answered honestly.

"Does the manager treat you well?"

"Well enough," I returned.

Maroni looked at me once more, sizing me up.

"Good." He said, smiling at me handsomely. To Frankie, he said, "Good. I hate seeing nice girls like this all dolled up and then treated like dirt. Gets my blood boiling, you know?"

Frankie smirked at me.

"What will _you_ have?" I asked Frankie.

"Beer." He returned in a low voice.

"Of course," I muttered, scribbling it down. "Lobster and Negroni for the Don, and just beer for you? Nothing to eat?"

"Unless you're putting yourself on the menu, no." Frankie returned, wiggling his eyebrows.

Maroni chuckled along with his friend. I rolled my eyes, putting away my pen and paper. As I strolled by the chef, I handed him the two orders. When the chef saw that he was cooking for the Don himself, he was immediately at his best and started working on those orders before the ones that had already been in place.

I walked into the kitchen, and I shuddered. Don Maroni had been polite for the most part, even enticing the employees including myself in conversation. But that Frankie Carbone was a pig. He left an oily taste in my mouth.

"Sylvia."

I saw Oswald looking at me, concerned.

"Hey...Paolo," I said, turning to him.

He smiled at my use of his alias, like it was an inside joke between the two of us (honestly, it was).

"Are you okay?" He asked.

"Fine." I answered.

He glanced at the other workers who were sneaking looks at us. Oswald wanted to ask me if Maroni or Frankie had told me anything important in regards to Falcone or the Arkham project. Or maybe he just wanted to know what had been said to me in general since I couldn't wipe the discomfort off my face. Before I said anything to the likeness, I heard Lou shouting.

"The plates are ready, Sylvia! Get in there and serve them."

Oswald and I exchanged looks of spite before I turned on my heel, thanked the chef for his timeliness, and then served the meals to the Don and his pig friend. Maroni looked at me with the same handsome smile, pleased to see that I was his waitress of the day. Granted, I was the _only_ waitress—the rest of them were all men.

"You remind me of someone," Maroni told me, stroking his chin thoughtfully. "Where are you from?"

"Gotham," I answered. "Born and raised."

"You like Gotham?"

"I like it enough."

Frankie opened his beer. Maroni glanced at his friend listlessly before turning back to me.

"Do you like working here?" Maroni asked.

"I like it enough," I answered, shrugging a shoulder.

Maroni smiled at me, like he could tell I wanted to pop off my boss at the moment. He seemed to like Lou well enough, greeting him with an embrace each and every time he came into the diner. Or maybe that was an Italian trait….or a Don trait, now that I thought of it. Since Falcone would do the same thing.

"Lou calls you 'Sasha'," said Maroni conversationally. "Is that your name?"

I scoffed, "No. It's Sylvia."

"'Sylvia'. Now that's a more fitting name," Maroni said, smiling at me. He looked at Frankie who was eye-fucking me. "Don't you think so, Frankie?"

"Very fitting," Frankie drawled.

I watched Maroni take a drink of his Negroni, then a bite of his lobster. He nodded with his approval, then held out his hand for mine. I offered it cautiously. Then he kissed the back of my hand charmingly.

"You've been very accommodating. Great service. Give my props to the chef, would you, babes?"

I felt something in my hand as he allowed me to leave. I realized then that he had given me a twenty-dollar tip.

I heard him say to Frankie, "Such a nice-looking girl, isn't she?"

"One of the best I've ever seen here," he chuckled.

I stopped at another table, took their orders, suffered the same sexual innuendo, and then gave these orders to the chef. He stopped me briefly, asking if the Don approved. I said 'yes' and that was the highlight of the chef's day, it seemed.

"Sasha…."

I glared at Lou.

"I mean Sylvia…." Lou corrected immediately.

"What?"

I stood near the shelves with all the ready-to-be-served plates. Lou stood before me. Oswald was washing dishes on the opposite side of us; he looked at Lou and me with a curious expression.

"Did he approve?" asked Lou.

"As always," I answered stoically.

"I knew he would."

I gave him a look.

"We're not talking about the food, are we?" I asked knowingly.

"He requested you specifically to serve him this afternoon," praised Lou, taking my hand in his. "You're his favorite."

"Fantastic."

"You don't sound enthusiastic."

"You're very perceptive," I told him apathetically. "Your psychological need to receive praise from Don Maroni borders on levels that would concern most people, Lou." I pulled my hand from him, wiping it on my apron. "With all due respect, sir, you need to get a life."

"That's not proper talk from an employee to her boss." Lou chastised.

I bit my tongue.

"My apologies," I said with forced calm. "I'm just tired, that's all."

"Well, you best get over it. Because Maroni is coming back _tomorrow_."

"Joy." I muttered, rolling my eyes.

Don Maroni was getting ready to leave so naturally, Lou, the little dog that he was, moved out of range to lead his master out of the door. Oswald looked at me with furrowed eyebrows and narrowed eyes, probably trying to see what devious thoughts were swirling in my mind.

That fucking Lou….

.0

Vodka seemed to be the cure of all problems. I was on my third glass and flipping through the countless boring channels Gotham's most expensive cable had to offer when the front door opened. I had gotten off work at the same time, but Oswald worked a longer shift. Knowing he'd be home eventually, I'd left all the locks alone. He came through the door, looking just as fed up with the world as I was.

I raised my glass, acknowledging him. He was still wearing his work clothes, dressed in all white. He moved behind the couch and leaned over to kiss me. I returned it, knowing he'd taste the sweet taste of alcohol on my lips.

"You smell like soap." I mused, grinning widely.

Oswald couldn't think of anything to say to that, so he kissed me on my cheek and moved into the bedroom.

I picked a random channel, and threw the remote to the side. My head was swimming, and since Oswald had walked into my apartment, there was a sudden ache in my loins that requested his attention. However, I maintained some self-control (surprisingly). When Oswald came out of the bedroom, he was dressed out of his work clothes and wearing a suit.

 _Goddamn._

"Heading somewhere?" I asked.

He locked the door, then turned to me.

"A few potential businessmen will be on their way shortly," Oswald informed casually.

"Businessmen," I noted with a chuckle. "Businessmen with briefcases or ones with guns?" I held my free hand up, symbolizing a child's gun and made 'pew-pew' noises.

Oswald buttoned the lining of his jacket as he approached me. I licked my lips as he placed one hand over my head on the back of the couch, while he balanced himself on the cushion with the other; Oswald hovered over me. I met his eyes and couldn't help to bite my lip—from this angle, he looked like a lion sizing up his prey. So dominant….

"Businessmen with guns," Oswald told me lightly.

"Sounds important." I noted. "Just because they have guns doesn't mean they're businessmen."

Oswald straightened. I leaned forward, placing my hands on his thighs.

"Are you planning a takeover?" I breathed.

"Something to that effect."

"Will you tell me?"

My hand ghosted over the custom-fitted linens that covered his cock. His body flinched, and I smirked. I palmed him through his pants, teasing.

"No need," Oswald returned quietly.

"Is that what they're coming over here? To talk about all the details?" I scrunched my nose playfully like a bunny rabbit.

Oswald watched me loosen his belt, his eyes transfixed on my fingers.

"How much have you had to drink?" Oswald asked gently, taking my hands in his and stopping my ministrations.

"Why does that matter?" I asked.

"How much, Sylvia?"

 _Oh, that stern tone._

I leaned back.

"Three glasses," I said. "And most of it was diluted with cranberry juice."

He looked me over, seeing me in my robe. It was clear he wanted me. He was already half-erect before I'd starting groping him. God knows I wanted him; he was this strategic, criminal mastermind...and I wanted him all the fucking time.

Oswald could exercise more control apparently since he tightened his belt and placed his hands on my face, urging me to look at him. I did.

"Get dressed, Sylvia." He said gently.

"I don't want to get dressed." I mumbled.

"I will not have you in attendance during this meeting wearing nothing under this," Oswald said, gesturing to the robe. "Do as I ask, please."

There was a harsh knock at the door.

I looked at Oswald pointedly, saying, "Since you said 'please'."

I stood to my feet, staggering slightly. I closed the bedroom door, hearing three people come in and greet Oswald warmly. I dressed in jeans and a dark red tank-top, no shoes, and pulled my hair up in a ponytail.

The men had convened in the kitchen, sitting around the dining table, with Oswald at the head. That piercing need to take him for myself in the kitchen was nearly overwhelming; instead of embarrassing him like that, I decided to make hors d'oeuvres.

When I had walked into the room, I noticed two things in particular. All three of the guests were watching me with a sudden look of surprise and simultaneous satisfaction. And Oswald appeared curiously restrained while the men ogled me.

"This is Sylvia," Oswald said, gesturing to me. "She'll be joining us."

I smiled at them.

"Hi." I greeted, waving.

The three of them emitted similar responses of equity. I busied myself, making the appetizers. I poured myself a glass of tea, but offered drinks to the guests.

"Beer." All three requested.

I gave them what they asked, and turned to Oswald.

"Anything for you, honey?"

Oswald shook his head.

The meeting began. I sat beside Oswald on his right hand side.

"You all know why you are here," said Oswald pointedly. "You three are one of the most successful gangs around Gotham. It's custom that we make the agreement clear to all parties involved."

"Sure." They all vocalized understanding.

"You will rob Bamonte's Restaurant," Oswald instructed. "Taking more than half of what Don Maroni has hidden. Most of it will be in the back of the restaurant, located behind two swinging double doors. Once inside, you may shoot anyone that gets in your way, provided that Sylvia is spared, and myself included."

"You want us to rob the joint—Don Maroni's joint," said one of them.

"Daunting as the task seems," Oswald mused, "there's a highlight that you fine gentlemen may want to consider before you turn it down."

"What's that?" muttered one of the younger souls.

"What money you take from the restaurant, you will be permitted to keep."

The guests appeared suddenly more eager to keep the contract.

"There must be a few guards inside that joint, though," said one of the wiser guests. "We'll have to go in and storm….probably wear masks or something."

Oswald held up his hands, saying, "I'll leave the method of completing this task entirely in your capable hands. Just as long as it gets done."

"And what about the owner?"

"Shoot him," I said.

Everyone in the kitchen, Oswald included, looked at me, startled. I hadn't really said a thing since this meeting had started. The guests looked at Oswald uncertainly, waiting for him to agree.

"You heard her. Shoot him," Oswald chuckled, grinning at me.

"We take down the restaurant, take the money, shoot the owner….and make sure nothing happens to you or her. We keep whatever we take." The third of the guests to not have spoken until now summarized the plan.

"Sounds simple enough," he said.

"Then we have an agreement." Oswald stated, standing to his feet. The others did the same. "It's great doing business with you."

They shook his hand, drank the rest of their beers, and then headed out. I looked after them, tilting my head to the side. Oswald walked them out, closing the door when the last one had left. The locks were put in place, then he turned to me.

"That went better than I thought it would," Oswald said, walking back into the kitchen.

"You don't think they'll screw up?" I asked coolly.

"They have a lot more at stake if they do." Oswald said, taking his seat. "And you, my dear. What an excellent idea having them shoot Lou. Did you come up with that all by yourself?"

I gave him a look, saying, "Don't patronize me. You want him dead just as much as I do. I can't take his condescending attitude or his insufferable need to please Maroni. It's sickening."

Oswald balanced his head in the palm of his hand, supported by his elbow.

"You make the perfect housewife, you know. Greeting our guests politely, offering them drinks."

I gave him a look, saying, "Please don't tell me that was a proposal."

Oswald chuckled, "Of course not. If I propose, you'll know it's happening."

I moved my chair closer to him. And he gave me a look of curiosity but one of enticement. His fondness for me had grown since he'd come back from the dead and I had welcomed him with open arms. And now, after the business meeting that involved murder and robbery, Oswald's fondness had only increased tenfold.

"I wouldn't mind being your wife," I told him with a smile.

He took my hand in his, rubbing my knuckles in concentric circles with the pad of his thumb.

"I want it more than anything," he returned.

"You need only ask me," I reminded.

He lifted my hand to his lips, and kissed the tips of my fingers.

"Not yet." Oswald said quietly.

He could make me feel like the most special person in the entire world with the softness of his voice and gentle caress of his hand. I slowly stood from my chair and then sat on his lap.

"If not now, when?" I asked.

"When the time is right." He replied.

He caressed the line of my jaw, his eyes following his own fingers.

"You deserve to have everything," Oswald said quietly. "You _will_ have everything."

The need to fuck him had been shoved away during the meeting with his business associates, but now his soft caresses and promises were bringing the heat back. His voice could do so many things to me. The way he looked at me like I was his moon and stars.

"I _do_ have everything," I mumbled, closing my eyes and getting lost to his touch. "I have _you_."

I felt his lips on mine before I could comprehend it. His hand on my neck moved lower to my chest, his fingers groping my breasts through my tank and bra. Steadily, his breathing had become heavy. I stood up, and he did so right after me. I lifted myself onto the table, smirking when he made quick disposal of my jeans, which fell on the kitchen tile.

"Businessmen with guns," I giggled. "Provided they actually do what they're told, what then?"

I pulled my tank top over my head, and the bra came off next so I was left in my panties. Oswald dressed down to match me, removing his jacket and throwing it over the chair. Seeing him wearing the vest and tie over a collared white shirt—so simple the design, and yet it created a deeper ache between my legs.

"I'm endearing myself to Maroni," Oswald said calmly.

"Hence the Italian name, 'Paolo'. So the robbery is a ploy," I mused. "Maroni sees you've saved what little you could and then he promotes you through the ranks."

"Caught on, have you?" Oswald returned arrogantly.

I grabbed his tie and pulled him towards me. I captured his lips with mine. He managed to hold his balance, but just enough.

"You're a criminal mastermind," I whispered.

"But only just," Oswald pointed out.

"Meaning?"

He shedded the rest of his clothes, bending down to take off his shoes and socks. When he straightened, I shoved my mouth against his once more, biting him. He groaned in response.

"I'm going to be someone in this town," said Oswald confidently.

"I never doubted that."

"When I am, there will be nothing I would deny you." Oswald whispered, kissing my lower lip. "As long as you will not deny me."

I lied back on the table, smiling up at him. Offering myself. He cradled my lower half in his arms, lifting up my hips. He sifted my panties from the source of my heat and I felt his tongue lick my clit. I was already wet, but I could feel myself becoming wetter. The slickness of my pussy, the clenching muscles inside, the heat of my face only becoming hotter. A small whimper escaped me.

"Don't give me that whine," Oswald muttered darkly. "You love being teased."

"I do…." I mumbled.

All the evidence pointed to the obvious. My toes curled, my heart raced, and I was edging between the earth and its blissful abyss. I could feel Oswald's eyes on me, watching my face contort in pleasure and need. His tongue licked my clit, massaging its center, and then delved deep inside my very core, fucking me. And my legs began to tremble. Arching my back, I could feel the climax building.

My fingers gripped the edge of the table.

 _Almost…._

His tongue left my body, and his fingers replaced the emptiness. I opened my eyes, and saw him watching me intensely. He finger-fucked my pussy, finding the most sensitive spot and craning his fingers at the perfect moment. I was slowly becoming undone.

"You need me, don't you?" Oswald said knowingly. His voice was hoarse with lust. His eyes bearing down on me.

"Yes, _please_."

All the incentive it took was my breathy and wanton consent. He grabbed both sides of my panties and ripped them down my legs. Such violence and aggression—it made me want him inside me even more.

He lined the tip of his cock along my swollen center, and I heard him chuckle.

"You need to relax, my dear," Oswald told me, rubbing my clit slowly in clockwise circles.

I was so tight with desire, he couldn't even get in. I had to chuckle at myself, honestly. I made an effort to calm the fuck down, to forcefully stop my muscles from clenching. I widened my legs apart, biting my lip when I felt a rush of instant bliss cloud my thoughts when Oswald slowly pushed inside of me. The wetness of my center welcomed him.

He let out a long, satisfied moan.

"Oh my god…." He whispered.

He took my hips in his grip, slowly moving in and out of me, savoring the wet depths. My own hand still gripped the table's edge as I continued to force myself to relax, not to clench the cock that slid in and out.

I moaned his name.

"Say it again," Oswald groaned.

I said his name again. I felt his cock twitch happily inside of me. His slow, calculating thrusts evolved. I couldn't relax anymore, and I allowed my body to squeeze. Oswald grinned blissfully, eyes rolling into the back of his head as he felt just how wet and tight I was for him. With every skin-slapping thrust, the table beneath me shook; the beer bottles left by the businessmen quivered and then fell off the table, shattering.

I wrapped my legs around his waist as Oswald quickened his pace.

Edging between the abyss and my inevitable climax had become too much for me, and I had inadvertently begun screaming in pleasure. His hand clamped over my mouth, but that only made me more excited. His other hand was placed over the cradle of my hip, his thumb rubbing my clit vigorously, causing my body to shake.

"Stop fighting it," Oswald growled.

He called me on it—the orgasm was just teetering, and I could go at any moment. Oswald lowered himself on me, his thrusts hard and fast. His teeth grazed my ear lobe, as he whispered, "Let go. Give into it, Pet."

 _Pet_.

That's all it took, hearing that little name. It immediately made me submissive, and took all the fight out of me. I did as I was told, and I completely gave into the orgasm; it took over my body, seizing every muscle, clouding my mind.

"That's it," Oswald moaned. "Good girl."

 _Good girl._

His body shook with mine. His cock twitched and released himself inside of me, sending me off into another orgasm.

When I recovered, I was covered in sweat, but perpetually satisfied. He straightened, and I smiled at him.

"Incredible," Oswald muttered.


	6. Lunch and Blood

Chapter Six: Lunch and Blood

Jim had asked me out for a luncheon.

It was a nameless restaurant in the better part of Gotham. Good food, good service, for the most part. We were seated by a waiter who also worked at _Bamonte's Restaraunt,_ same place as me. He had two kids, no wife, being a single parent. I made it my personal mission to leave the guy a tip before we left.

I sat across from Jim, who faced the exit. As a cop, he had the constant vigilance built inside himself to face all exits, and likewise to know where the nearest bathroom was located in any case we decided to jump on the Indian food train.

"How have you been?" Jim asked curiously, taking his silverware out of the folded napkin then the straw out of its plastic wrapping—even though we didn't have food or beverages delivered to us just yet.

He was fidgeting.

"Why do you look so anxious?" I asked. "More than usual, anyway."

"I don't know what you're talking about," Jim returned defensively.

I grinned at him, knowing him too well. This was more than just a lunch date with a sibling. He looked like he needed to say something or ask a very important question. His very affect said that much, and while he could fidget with his straw or look like he was at ease, I could tell the difference. Ever since he found out that I was dating Oswald Cobblepot, Jim had taken on this odd, aloof persona.

"This was pretty random," I stated, gesturing to the restaurant. "You never want to go out and eat."

"I thought it was a nice change."

"New change of scenery from your cop buddies?" I offered.

Jim's response was hallow: "Something like that."

I tilted my head to the side. He looked at me knowingly. Just as I knew him.

"What's this really about?" I questioned, taking a sip of my coke.

"I'm having lunch with my sister. Why does that sound odd to you?"

"You normally call me every day to check in, and you haven't call me in days," I noted. "You invite me out to this restaurant, when I _know_ you don't like eating out."

"Maybe _you_ should be a detective," Jim muttered sarcastically.

"My point is that this isn't a social visit," I stated, interlacing my fingers on the table. "You have something to say to me. Or something to ask, right?"

Jim gave me a look.

"You're not great with segues, big brother," I told him, leaning back. "You're direct, to the point, and this whole _thing…_." I gestured to the restaurant scene. "This isn't you. So tell me what's on your mind."

Jim dropped the act entirely, leaning forward.

"Falcone and Maroni." He said. "They're at war with each other for Arkham."

"And?" I returned carelessly. "What else is new? _Everyone_ wants a slice of Arkham."

"Depending on whoever gets it may result in a city-wide gang war, Sylvia." Jim hissed, glaring at me. "You must know something about it."

"Why would I know anything about Arkham?"

Jim rolled his eyes.

"Come on. Help me out here."

"Is this about what _he_ told you?" I questioned coolly.

'He' being Oswald. Jim and I didn't have to mention his name to know who we were talking about. Sibling telepathy, maybe, but it was the only name that Jim wouldn't bare to enunciate unless it was within the privacy of his or my home.

"He knows more about what's going on with Arkham than me, Jim," I admitted.

"Councilmen are dying off, Sylvia."

"Sounds more like a public service."

"Sylvia!"

"What?" I exclaimed. "The more politicians that get offed, the better Gotham is, right?"

"Has he told you anything?" Jim questioned.

"Has _he_ told you something?" I rounded, pointing at him.

Jim frowned.

Oswald _had_ spoken to him. The evidence was clear.

"He said that Maroni put out another hit on someone, someone backing Falcone's plan, the _Wayne_ plan. I don't have much time," Jim said, shaking his head. "I don't trust him to tell me the name, even if he knew it."

"But you'd trust me to tell you?"

"You would, wouldn't you?" Jim asked breathlessly. "If it came down to saving a life, you would let me know what he knew, right?"

I leaned back in my chair, crossing my arms.

"First things first, okay?" I said coolly. "Please don't ever make me choose between you and him. That's not fair to either of you, and certainly not fair to me. Secondly, _he_ knows more about Gotham and its sewers better than me. If he doesn't know who's getting whacked first, then I don't."

"I didn't ask you to choose between us."

"It sounded like it," I muttered, glaring at him.

Jim shifted uncomfortably in his chair.

"Think about it, Jimmy." I insisted, leaning forward pointedly. "He said someone is targeted, someone backing Falcone's side. If all the councilmen that voted for Falcone are dead, then there wouldn't be another target, right?"

"Right."

"So who else has made it publicly known that they're endorsing it?" I asked.

Jim smiled suddenly, placing his hand on mine.

"Thank you." He said, obviously someone had popped into his head as a possible target. "I'll be right back. I'm going to make a phone call."

"Assuming Harvey Bullock picks up the phone," I pointed out, rolling my eyes.

Jim stepped to the side, made his call. Bullock told him something urgent apparently, because Jim returned to the table, looking unhappy and reluctant. I recognized that look all too well and waved my hand at him.

"Go." I sighed. "Save another life, Jimmy."

"We'll do lunch another time, okay?" Jim said hurriedly.

"Yep."

He kissed my forehead then quickly headed out.

I pulled out the twenty that Maroni had given to me in passing for a job well done, and placed the same one on the table for the single parent waiter. He needed it more than me. I left the restaurant so as to start my shift at another diner.

0.

I was dressed in my red and white waitress' apparal, all pretty and the like. It was a normal day, for the most part. I wasn't certain _when_ the 'businessmen' would enact their robbery. According to Oswald, it had to be impromptu and naturally surprise the both of us if it was going to appear authentic and genuine. And it did the job.

Out of no where, three burglars dressed in black and wearing panty hose over their heads ( _Panty hose_ of all things) stormed inside the restaurant, carrying shot guns and pistols. Immediate panic struck the guests as they all dodged, running around like chickens with their heads cut off. Lou was quick to dial the number (not likely 911) and just as I made a motion to get out of the fucking way, he snatched my wrist and pulled me in front of him.

I became his fucking human shield.

At first the men looked confused, knowing they would have to shoot the manager, but they clearly didn't want to shoot me.

Pissed off that on top of being an insufferable prick, Lou turned out to be a coward as well, I shouted "Let go of me, you ass!"

"You all best get the hell out of here—Maroni's men are on their way!" Lou shouted.

I slammed my fist into his groin and Lou whined. The robbers before me winced as Lou bent down to get his breath back. I quickly dodged out of their way, scrambling underneath the table. I heard Lou cry out for mercy before he was gunned down and his body hit the table above me.

One of the younger robbers bent down under the table.

"Hey! You okay!"

"I'm fine!" I hissed. "What the fuck are you doing—get out of here!"

They quickly left with the money, tossing the panty hose as they jumped into the van and drove off with almost all of Maroni's money. I crawled out from underneath the table, grimacing when I felt some of Lou's blood fall on my shoulder as I straightened. Then I headed into the kitchen, searching for Oswald, but was stopped short.

"NOT SO FAST!"

I screamed at the top of my lungs when I felt someone lunge for me, holding me close to him. I turned and saw that it was the remainder of the so-called businessmen, panty hose still on his head.

"What the fuck are you doing?" I growled.

"Taking what's mine—"

"Where the fuck did you even come from!" I snapped, attempting to get out of his grip.

Literally, this fucker had come out of no where. He was one of them though. I smelled booze on his breath; he'd taken some Jack Daniels for a pint of courage. I struggled to get out of his grip, kicking and punching. He pushed me down on the table, face first into Lou's dead body, blood touching my lips and copper smell filling my nostrils.

"We got the money, now I'm getting the girl!"

 _This was not part of the deal, man_!

He pushed up my dress, and grabbed my ass.

"STOP!"

"Don't worry," he chuckled. "You'll like it."

"I'm saying 'no'!" I shouted.

He grabbed my head, slamming it on the table. I was disorientated, but very much aware of his hands feeling me up.

The gun. In Lou's pocket.

I saw it, like a gleaming sword sticking out from Lou's dinner jacket, the inner pocket.

"I'll give you the best fuck of your life…."

I heard several footsteps barge into the restaurant, the small ring of the bell as the door closed. I turned at that moment, cocked the gun, and shot the son of a bitch in the face.

I was panting from struggling, and thanks to the asshole, I was covered in Lou's blood. I quickly pulled up my panties that had been forced down my legs, smoothed out my skirt, and realized I stood in front of Maroni's men, including Frankie Carbone.

"Holy shit." Frankie muttered, glancing down at the dead man's mangled face. He turned to his pals, saying, "Check the back."

His back-up moved past me. Frankie looked at me. He was a pig, but the depth of concern was revealed to me.

"You gonna be okay?" Frankie asked.

I nodded.

He patted my shoulder, and then moved with his boys in the back. I followed them, watching Frankie follow bloody footprints to the freezer. He opened it, and there was Oswald, holding the money. He pretended to be scared, even expressed concern about Lou. Frankie quieted him down, telling him to save it for the boss. They helped him out of the freezer. Oswald took one look at me and was full of questions.

Covered from head to toe in Lou's blood, even my face, he sensed that something had gone amiss. But now was not the time to talk about it. Frankie excused me for the rest of the day. I washed up in the bathroom, happy to note that I brought in an extra pair of clothes as I always did for a backup. I threw my work clothes in the bin, knowing I would be able to get a newer one from….well, from whoever would be running the show now that Lou was dead.

I went home without another word.

Later that night, Jim called me and asked if I wanted to do lunch tomorrow.

I declined.

.0

I was asleep when Oswald had come home. I could hear him moving through the house, familiar with the characteristics of his footsteps, which quieted when he stepped on the carpet in the bedroom. The bed shifted with his weight as he crawled under the covers beside me, his arms wrapping around my stomach, pulling me to him.

I turned on my back, looking up at him.

"Do you want to tell me what happened?" Oswald asked quietly.

"You first." I returned just as quietly.

Oswald smiled, saying, "Don Maroni will be visiting the restaurant tomorrow. Mr. Carbone is going to tell him what happened, and he'll end up talking to me."

"It all worked out then, the plan?"

"Perfectly."

I smiled saying, "I'm happy for you, Ozzie."

Oswald placed his hand on my cheek, his thumb stroking my bottom lip.

"Something happened, didn't it?" Oswald asked knowingly.

"Yes."

"Please tell me."

I hesitated at first. It would come out eventually, I was for certain. I took his hand and moved it from my face, placing it over my heartbeat. I was certain he could feel it, with it thumping so loudly.

"One of their own." I said "They stayed behind when the others got the money."

"Did he," Oswald returned. Not a question. A statement of fact.

I sat up.

"He tried to rape me." I let it come out as dry as it did. My emotions had long since passed about the incident and I only said it as a fact at this point.

Oswald, on the other hand, hadn't been able to process this. Instead, he was set a frenzy.

"HE DID WHAT!"

I caught his wrist and pulled him back into bed before he could do anything.

"Yes." I said calmly. "He did."

"Did he….?" Oswald motioned to me, wanting to know.

"No." I returned. "He didn't even get close."

"Sylvia, I am—"

"Uh-uh." I put my hand over his mouth. "No apologies from you. And I don't think his buddies knew he was going to try anything. So it's not their fault either."

Oswald's eyes were ice.

"I hope you made him pay for it," Oswald said dangerously, his voice shaking.

"I did. I shot him in the face." I said, grinning widely.

Oswald smiled, saying, "Good enough, I suppose."

I pecked him on the cheek.

"What's done is done," I told him lightly. "Let's not let this get in the way of your success, yeah?"

"But Sylvia…."

"No more talk." I insisted. "Please."

"If that's what you want," Oswald returned dutifully.

He moved closer and lied beside me. His arms pulled me towards him once more, and I snuggled in his protective embrace.


	7. Charmed and Promoted

Chapter Seven: Charmed and Promoted

Several diners left me some pretty good tips when they left the restaurant. I pocketed half and then side-stepped to the waiter….his name was Tom, I think….who had the two kids. I gave him forty bucks, and he thanked me. Tom was a good guy, hard worker, and he was the only one in the restaurant that didn't refer to 'Paolo' as Penguin. For that, I respected him.

It was about the time that Maroni would be coming in with his pals when Tom, the youthful brunette that he was, stopped me short in the kitchen, asking if I would take his shift so he could pick up his kids from soccer. Saying I would, he gratefully thanked me and then headed out as quick as his legs could take him.

I watched him leave.

It was hard to figure out whether he was just excited to leave so he could see his kids' soccer tournament play out for the last ten minutes, or maybe it was all just a lie and he wanted to quickly bang a chick who suddenly had become available.

Either way, I was going to be on my feet for the next six hours.

 _No breaks for the hard-working_ , I thought.

"...People pissing me off left and right—and Falcone thinks he can do this to me!"

Maroni's voice filled the diner as soon as he came inside. Frankie Carbone probably just laid down the news for him.

"He thinks he can hit me—in my home—and thinks I won't hit him back! He's gonna have another thing coming!" Maroni bellowed.

I picked up the plates and bowls from the other abandoned tables, walking past the two men. I noticed there was still blood on the table from where Lou had died. His body was gone, but the pool of blood had remained over night.

 _Gross_.

I strode past the chef, who eyed me curiously. I hadn't said much of anything to the other employees. They'd all run out, and some had even died in the incident. I thought that my episode the night before had been completely erased from my mind with the help of vodka, but when I had entered the restaurant, I had a flashback. My dress being yanked up above my ass, my panties being forced down my legs….I was in a state of calm for now, but the memory made me feel like I might gag.

I had never truly experienced an act of violence before. There was a first for everyone in Gotham, I guess. Mine just happened to be right in the place of my work. Undoubtedly, Frankie Carbone had mentioned it to Maroni since the Don glanced at me curiously, perhaps with worry or maybe with genuine curiosity.

"I want to hit him back," said Maroni, clenching his fists. "This time where it hurts. I want to hit the Mouth! His time's up."

"I'll take care of it," reassured Frankie. "Then there's the other thing…."

Both Maroni and Frankie turned their heads in Oswald's direction.

"Send him over," Maroni ordered.

While they were going to talk to him, I saw two more customers arriving. I walked past the Don, greeting the guests with a smile.

"Booth or table?"

"Table."

"Please follow me," I said sweetly, holding three menus for the family and they followed me.

I showed them to their seats. I was within ear shot of Maroni as the Don spoke to Oswald

"You know I'm a man that shows appreciation where appreciation is due," said Don Maroni, business-like.

"Yes, Don Maroni." Oswald answered.

"What you did for me yesterday did not go unnoticed." Maroni said gallantly.

"Thank you, Sir. I only wish I was able to retrieve the other—" Oswald began, but Maroni stopped him.

"How long you been washing dishes?"

"Not long," said Oswald truthfully.

"That ends today," Maroni stated. "You've been promoted to restaurant manager….the job recently became available."

Oswald was all smiles. I tended to the customers who asked for water, water, and an apple juice (they had a five-year-old son). I started towards the kitchen, bringing the chef the orders, but Maroni held out his arm, blocking my path. I looked at him pointedly, glancing at Oswald, who looked just as concerned.

"Good afternoon, Sylvia."

I smiled politely saying, "Good afternoon yourself, Don Maroni."

Maroni looked at Frankie, saying, "Get the kid a suit. I need to talk with this one."

Frankie handed Oswald some major cash as Maroni pulled me aside. Maroni glanced at Oswald curiously, then to me.

"Frankie told me what happened yesterday," said Maroni softly, clasping his hands in front of him as he looked at me somberly. "He told me what he walked into. I'm sorry that happened to you, Sylvia."

"Nothing happened to me," I reminded him calmly.

"Because you didn't let it," Maroni stated, smiling proudly at me. "Frankie tells me you shot one of them—one of the men that robbed me."

"Right in the face, sir." I replied.

"Son of a bitch deserved it. So let me ask you this question," said Maroni seriously. "Something like that happens to you at work, and you come back the next day, pretending everything is just peachy. How does a woman like you do that, I wonder?"

"Very carefully," I joked.

Maroni chuckled, "You have a dark, twisted sense of humor, don't you, Sylvia?"

"As dark as it comes," I returned charmingly.

Maroni saw me look over his shoulder. He saw that Oswald was still there, watching me, a protective look in his eye. Maroni seemed to put two-and-two together. He gestured for Oswald to join us. And he did so.

"This is your girl, isn't she?" Maroni asked Oswald, looking at me pointedly.

"Yes, sir." Oswald answered dutifully.

"Bit of a pistol." Maroni chuckled, smirking.

He seemed amused by the fact that Oswald and I were an item. As to why, I couldn't figure just right there. Maroni held out his hand for me to shake. I took it, and he kissed the back of it just as charmingly as he had done before.

"You have gumption," Maroni stated. "Not a lot of people have that anymore—especially in Gotham. You take care now, you hear?"

"Always."

Maroni chuckled and walked out of the diner with Frankie.

0.

I strode into GCPD. Jim and I had been playing phone tag, but not without incident. I wore my blue jeans and a red, spaghetti tank top. Fish's mark had scarred on my collar bone, but thankfully, it was light. My fair and pale complexion nearly covered it up for which I was grateful. The heel of my laced up boots clicked the wooden tile and only stopped as I was greeted by the police officers warmly. They knew me as Jim Gordon's little sister. Family to the ones I had known the longest, and eye candy to those who didn't get a proper introduction.

The first to greet me was Capt Essen. She was a colored, nice lady with black hair, sometimes worn down or pulled back in a pony tail. I held five boxes of cheese pizza, figuring I might as well visit all my brothers and not just the blood relative. She carried them in the break room, and no announcement was needed as they all smelled the aroma.

I quickly stepped aside, chuckling along with her when the Calvary was called.

"How have you been, Sylvia?" Essen asked, embracing me in her arms.

"So-So," I answered vaguely.

"Jim tells us you're no longer working in Mooney's—that must be relaxing for a change," Essen chuckled, smiling at me.

I shrugged saying, "I traded one angry boss for another."

"Any hope of changing that?"

"Maybe," I said, smiling secretively. "My boss was recently fired, so we'll see how the new one works out."

"Maybe you'll get a raise," Essen suggested positively.

"Only time will tell," I said smoothly.

"Sylvia!"

I turned to see Jim heading down the stairs, greeting me. We hugged briefly.

"Coming to celebrate with us, huh?" Jim asked.

"Well, you didn't answer your phone when I called, so I thought I would make it a surprise," I returned slyly. "You've been busy."

Essen could see that we were about to have a sibling chat, so she excused herself politely, patting us both on the shoulders before leaving us. Jim looked at me. And I recognized the troubled glint in his eye.

"It's Barbara," Jim muttered, rolling his eyes. The cynicism only covered what lurked beneath the surface.

"Did she make you choose?" I asked curiously.

"Might as well have," Jim said.

"How does it feel?" I returned sarcastically.

"Don't, Sylvia."

"I'm just proving a point," I said, shrugging my shoulders. "So she wants you to choose between your work and her, right?"

"She wants me to choose between letting her in or letting her go."

"So let her in," I offered.

"The last time I talked to her about my work, she called the newspapers." Jim grumbled, massaging his temples.

"So then let her go."

"She's my fiancee. I can't let her go."

"Well, then you're at a crossroads, aren't you, Jimmy?" I returned gently, patting his shoulder. "Barbara's pretty stubborn, too, like you...like me. Odds are, she won't let this go. So you might as well just make up your mind right now, huh?"

Jim gave me a look, saying, "You _really_ think it's that easy."

"For me, it would be. Choosing between the love of my life or my work would be exceptionally easy for me. Since my job is absolute shit." I remarked apathetically. "You love your job, you love Barbara. Let her in, but don't let her in so much."

"Easier said than done," Jim mumbled.

"You'll find the balance," I encouraged. "You always do."

Jim smiled at me.

"You ever figure out who the target was?" I asked, jumping on a different topic.

"The mayor," said Jim.

"Mm….That would definitely have been my guess."

"Isn't that what you were trying to tell me?"

"Honestly," I admitted, "I was blowing smoke up your ass and thinking whatever I said might jog those brain juices of yours."

Jim gave me a look again as though I had told him the secret behind a legendary magic trick and it was all smoke and mirrors. It was like his spirit was crushed.

"You have a dark, twisted sick sense of humor, you know that right?" Jim said, shaking his head.

"So I have been told," I returned, thinking of Maroni.

"HEY, it's my main girl, Sylvia!"

"Hello to you too, Harvey," I chuckled as he clapped me hard on the back.

"How the hell have you been?" Harvey nearly shouted, holding a slice of pizza in one hand, beer in the other.

"It's like one in the afternoon," I noted. "Drinking already?"

"I always crack open the juice around this time," Harvey said casually, dropping a large string of cheese in his mouth. "Gets me through the day, don't it, Jim?"

"So it does," Jim noted, agreeing more out of reluctance.

"How you been?" Harvey asked sheepishly, nudging my shoulder. "Fish was asking about you."

"Has she, now?" I asked dryly.

"Harvey, not now," Jim muttered.

"Yeah," said Harvey, ignoring Jim, "She's always talking about you….certainly hates you now. You bite her or something?"

"I did," I returned proudly. "Best moment of my life."

"Can't say the thought hasn't crossed my mind once or twice, but you know...I'd have done it differently," Harvey snickered, winking at me.

"Seriously, Harvey?" Jim grumbled disgustedly. "That's not an image I want in my head."

"Your sister and Fish biting each other," chuckled Harvey, grinning widely. "That's the _only_ image I've had in my head since I found out."

"Oh for Christ's sake," Jim muttered, meaning to walk away.

"Just kidding, Jimbo!" Harvey called after him. He turned to me, all smug. "Seriously though. Fish _has_ asked about you, where you might be working or doing something. She hasn't seen you in the club or anything."

"She told me never to come back," I reminded him calmly. "I figure it was the least I could do."

"Why'd she fire you anyway?" asked Harvey.

I shrugged in response.

Harvey was about to ask me another question but the television was turned up in volume, drawing our attention. Harvey and I moved to the office where Jim was leaning against the doorway, watching the news. On it, Gotham's own Mayor James was reporting the latest result of the Arkham Vote.

"The Arkham district will be developed into low-cost housing as well as a much needed waste disposal site. This is the best of both plans, together in one. As for Arkham Asylum, it will be retrofitted for modern standards and reopened. Gotham deserves a world-class treatment facility for the mentally ill." Mayor James reported.

I sighed, saying, "Our mayor is a bit of a putz, isn't he?"

Harvey glanced at me, as did Jim, both thinking the same thing.


	8. Stairs and Dinner

Chapter Eight: Stairs and Dinner

1...2….3….4….5….

The elevator was broken, so now I was forced to use the stairs.

6...7….8….9….

Counting the steps seemed to pass the time. On the plus side, Oswald had come home early before the elevator had gone kaput—lucky him.

10….11….13….14….

I started jumping the stairs, two at a time.

16….18….21….

I managed to skip three steps, but god, I certainly wasn't about to do the _splits_ up that many flights. Back to two, I guess.

Oswald had gone home early, being the restaurant manager that he was. He was hiring more people to replace the ones that had died in the unfortunate robbery incident. For that matter, Oswald had even gone home earlier than a manager's normal hours than I expected. What he had been up to for the last five hours, I certainly couldn't imagine.

Maybe I didn't want to.

40….42….44….

Who am I kidding though—I wanted to know. Oswald had lifted a great deal of the financial burden off my shoulders, insisting that he pay rent on my apartment, and even the insurance on my car. A gentleman, he was, but that seemed like a lot of money.

50….52….53,54—mind the cat on the step—56….

 _Where did he get the money, though_?

Restaurant Managers earned a great deal more than dishwashers and waitresses, certainly, but enough to pay all my finances was a huge jump in financial stability.

 _Fuck these steps—they really need to fix that fucking elevator_.

While I couldn't be bothered with the payments from the other companies, I was certain that Oswald had other things going on that I didn't know about. I wasn't worried about him cheating on me—even banging a high-class married whore wouldn't give him that much money. Plus, he seemed completely endeared to me.

The money had come from somewhere, but I knew not where. And I hadn't even thought about it until I was forced to go up these flights of stairs.

70….72— _ **ahh**_!…..60….62…..goddamn kids, leaving their toys on the fucking steps. I nearly broke my neck!

And what happened to the men that Oswald had met with the other night? Yes, the one I shot was dead, but that didn't account for the other three. Were they in hiding because the police _and_ Maroni were out for their necks? It was something to be considered.

Then I wondered. Speaking of not hearing about someone in a while, when was he going to let his mother know he was even alive? That woman….Gertrude Kapelput….Maroni wanted to talk about _me_ being a pistol.

90….91….

Try having _her_ go up all these stairs, she'd have the apartment complex's owner within her many-ringed fingers.

92….

Maybe that wasn't a bad idea.

 _Let's have Mother Cobblepot over for a visit_ , I thought pointedly. It's not like she was not calling my phone every hour on the other hour asking if I had seen her precious son. She was a sweet little lady, believe me, but when it regarded her son, the woman had teeth!

100….102….104….fucking killing my legs here….105….105….105….I just need a breather.

I slumped against the wall, sighing deeply.

Right before Oswald had gone and disappeared (no thanks to my wonderful brother), Getrude and I had briefly met. She regarded me politely, but ultimately, I was the threat that would take her son away from her. She and Oswald were fairly close. I couldn't say the same about _my_ mother.

She'd gushed for twenty minutes about how elegant her son was, and, oh, the fond memories they had spent together. Oswald, of course, turned beet red when Getrude mentioned that Oswald never really had many girlfriends and how he didn't always get along with the other children because they resented his intelligence.

'Envy and spite', she said. That's why they disliked him.

140….141….142….

Oswald had introduced me to her as a 'friend'. Nothing more, nothing less. Seeing how close the bond was between mother and son, I was almost grateful that I had been mentioned as such. The woman's eyes could have killed me. She was a protective little soul, glaring daggers.

Since his disappearance, she was calling me and telling me to 'bring her son back'. I think one time, she called me a 'hussy' and how I had him tangled up in my 'demon purse'. Since I was the only person she'd ever seen with Oswald, introduced to Momma Cobblepot, I became the prime suspect for her son's disappearance. But she was a nice woman. She loved her son, that much could be said. Despite the annoyance of her acclamation that I was a slut, I still thought she was a nice woman. A little misguided, maybe, but otherwise, pretty nice.

160….161…. _almost there_.

Twentieth floor...why did I have to live on the twentieth floor.

By the time I'd gotten all the way up, I was sweating and hurting.

 _God, I am out of shape_.

I took out my key, unlocked the door and opened it. It was my turn to come in and see a drunken lover, sitting on the couch. The site itself was pretty hot, I admitted to myself shamelessly.

Oswald Cobblepot sat on the couch, watching what I could hear was the news, drinking from a wine glass. His hair was a mess, his jacket was placed on top of the couch, tie dangling over it; his vest was a little wrinkled from slouching, and the cuffs and collar of his white long-sleeve shirt he wore underneath was undone. His feet were on the table, crossed at the ankle.

And he looked like he was relaxed-drunk, instead of haggard-drunk.

I slowly closed the door, locking it behind me.

"Where have you been?" Oswald asked.

His words didn't exactly slur, but I could definitely tell he had been drinking for at least a couple of hours.

"Climbing the stairs," I said. "At one point, _literally_."

I tossed my apron over my head and onto the floor, stepping out of my heels. Oswald watched me, lips slightly parted.

"How was work?" Oswald asked, smiling a little.

"So-so," I answered. "Tom had to pick up his kids again, so I worked the late shift."

"That's the third time this week," Oswald pointed out, lifting his glass and drinking from it.

"I noticed that too."

I leaned against the wall, rubbing my ankles.

"Should I say something to him?" Oswald asked me.

"It's not my position to say whether or not you should," I relented.

"Maybe I should," Oswald mumbled. He took his feet off the table in favor of leaning forward and pouring another glass of wine.

I picked up my heels, and apron, casually walking into the bathroom and throwing the apron in the hamper. I took a quick shower, just long enough to wash my hair and body, then got out, wrapping a towel around my chest, and a spritz of vanilla for the feel of coming out of a spa. When I walked into the living room, Oswald hadn't moved at all. Eyes facing front, looking at the television.

Mayor James was on the news, going on about the newest development of the Arkham district, and how great it was for Gotham.

"Have you had anything to eat, Oz?"

"Hmm?"

He craned his head to look at me.

"Have you eaten anything?" I asked. "Cherry garnishes don't count."

"No." He answered dully.

"Do you want anything?"

"Not really."

"I'll take that as a 'yes'." I replied coolly.

Oswald meticulously stood to his feet. The alcohol didn't hit completely until he, too, was a little surprised by how unbalanced he was. He quickly grabbed the back of the couch until the world stopped spinning. Then he hobbled into the room, leaning his figure against the walkway arch that separated the living room and kitchen.

"You hear anything on the news about the gang?" Oswald asked, narrowing his eyes to refocus his vision as I walked around the kitchen.

"Which gang?"

"The one I hired to rob the restaurant," Oswald answered.

"I haven't," I replied.

I turned to him.

"Should I have heard something?"

"Maybe," Oswald said, smirking at me. "Maybe it isn't news worthy. But it might interest you."

"What may interest me?"

Oswald sauntered fully into the kitchen, his hands on the back of one the dining chairs as he leaned forward.

"They're dead." Oswald snickered. "All three of them."

I put on some tea, turning on the stove before turning to him.

"Dead?" I repeated.

"Dead." Oswald reiterated, smirking at me.

"How so?"

He pointed at himself.

"You killed them?" I asked.

"Wasn't hard." Oswald returned modestly. "They _love_ _C_ annoli."

I stared at him, confused, until I realized what he meant.

He poisoned them. That certainly explained the lack of correspondence between our friends. If he had taken their lives, odds are he had taken the money they'd stolen as well. That also explained the financial stability.

"I told you it wasn't their fault," I said calmly. "And the person responsible met his due. Remember? I shot him in the face."

"Well," Oswald mused, "it's not just what their friend did to you."

" _Tried_ to do to me," I corrected.

"The effort exacerbated to hurt you is completely irrelevant to me," said Oswald curtly.

It was a wonder to me how despite being clearly drunk, he was still articulate. That was an attractive trait I hadn't yet discovered, until now. He approached me, pinning me against the counter with his hands on either side of sink. His face was only centimeters from mine, and I smelled the wine on his breath….grapes….hmm….

"They were loose ends," Oswald said, nodding his head as though to make me understand. "Loose ends that needed to be tied off. And that's what I did."

"With poisoned Cannoli." I reminded.

"Precisely." Oswald said, winking. "It's quiet, and whatever is left will appear accidental."

"Homicide wouldn't be called for something like that anyway." I returned calmly. "They have better things to worry about—this new drug, Viper, for instance."

Oswald sighed carelessly. He leaned in, kissing my neck. I closed my eyes, feeling the softness of his lips graze the skin just beneath my earlobe. A pleasurable shiver ran down my back.

"It makes sense, then, why no one put their deaths on the news," said Oswald. He licked my ear.

BANG, BANG.

Oswald scoffed, "Oh for _fuck's_ sake…."

"Easy, tiger…." I cooed, kissing his cheek. "Sit tight."

Oswald grumbled, taking a seat at the kitchen table.

I slipped into the bathroom, taking off my towel. I pulled on a pair of black shorts and tee shirt, then made my way to the door. I didn't know who it was, never having met the person. He held out a vile of green something; on it read 'breathe me'. I took it and then he was gone like a flash. I closed the door.

It was definitely the Viper drug that had been spreading about.

I opened a window and tossed it out.

 _No thanks_.

I strode into the kitchen. My plan was to make BLTs (bacon, lettuce, tomato sandwiches) and then have a drink of wine myself. Seeing me, Oswald smiled.

"Who was it?" He asked.

"Honestly, I have _no_ idea."

"You have a prankster in your building," Oswald noted, twirling his finger at the ceiling. "Kids today…."

"It wasn't a kid," I assured.

"A geriatric prankster, then."

"I highly doubt it, honey."

Oswald giggled, "Can you imagine an elderly man walking around and pushing doorbells?"

I put the bacon on the stove; it simmered. I sliced the tomatoes and lettuce; as I did so, I was very aware of Oswald getting to his feet. The chair scooted into the table. His hands interlaced in my hair, holding strands, entangling them around his fingers. I heard him breathe in deeply, taking in the scent of my freshly shampooed wet locks and vanilla lotion.

His hands moved to my neck, his thumbs massaging into the nape.. I lowered my head, only realizing the knot of tension bearing there once he'd started. One hand remained there; his other moved downward between my shoulder blades, following the spine of my back.

"They didn't see it coming," Oswald breathed against my neck.

"Who would suspect Cannoli to be dangerous," I muttered.

"It's not the food that people have to worry about." Oswald noted.

 _Just the person that gives it to you._

I thought of the unnamed man that had given me Viper tonight. How true, indeed.

I put the lettuce on a plate, the tomatoes on another. I had made five strips of bacon, so far, and had planned to make a total of ten. Another raw slice was placed on the stove, simmering and hissing.

Oswald lowered both his hands to my hips. I heard him groan deep inside his throat. His fingers widened along my hip bone, then moved further downward and between the fabric of my clothes and my skin. His left hand rubbed my inner thigh, the other cupped my pussy in its palm.

"Oswald…."

"Mmm-hmm?"

"I'm making dinner."

"I can see that."

"You're distracting me." I mumbled.

"Now you know how I feel anytime you're around me," Oswald whispered. "But such a _beautiful_ distraction you are, Pet."

 _Pet._

There was that trigger word. That little name he used to show just what kind of mood he was in.

His index and middle finger touched my clit, circling slowly around the bundle of nerves. I moaned quietly when they left and made a single movement along the slit of my sex.

Oswald grinned broadly when he extracted yet another moan from me.

"Darling…." He said softly.

"Yes?"

"You're burning dinner."

I looked down and saw that the bacon bore a similarity to a block of charcoal. He kissed my cheek, and walked back into the living room. I looked after him incredulously.

I should have been angry for the teasing, but he knew me too well. _I loved_ being teased. I finished making dinner, placing it on the table. Oswald was in the living room, still, watching the news, holding the glass of wine. He looked like a master on a throne.

 _And I'm his pet_.

The thought certainly made my insides warm like butter.

I put together two plates, placing them on the coffee table in front of him. Oswald looked at me wordlessly. I smiled sweetly, taking the empty wine bottle, throwing it in the trash, and returning with a new one. He looked at me curiously, eyes shining with the glimmer of interest. I knelt down on my knees in front of him, between his legs.

"What are you doing?" Oswald questioned.

"What do you _think_ I am doing?"

"I don't know. That's why I asked."

He took another drink from his wine glass.

"Don't worry about it."

"Should I be? Worried, I mean."

"Just watch the news." I said smoothly.

"Sylvia…." Oswald warned as I started loosening his belt.

"All this pet wants to do is please her master," I whispered.

Oswald looked at me, puzzled, but the suggestion made him smile. He watched me undo his belt, then unzip his pants. I groped his cock through his boxers; he watched me like a hawk eyes its prey. His gaze was so intense, I felt my face heat up. I was little humiliated by my sudden subservience, but god knows I wanted to be the submissive one.

The Mayor on the news was starting to talk about how Gotham would be made proud again….the Arkham project again.

"What a fool," Oswald muttered, glaring daggers at the TV. "He doesn't even know the half of it."

I lowered his boxers, and his cock stood at attention. I took the tip of it in my mouth, tasting the precum. No wonder why he'd stopped teasing me—he had been teasing himself in the process.

"Mmm…."

Hearing his pleasurable sigh, I took more of him in my mouth. I could feel him in my throat as my lips touched the base. I bobbed my head up and down, tasting him. His head fell back on the couch, eyes slowly closing. I heard another moan escape him. When I looked up at him, I saw him smiling in pure bliss.

"You're really good at this…." Oswald mumbled.

I hummed a response, the vibrations on his cock made him shiver. He leaned forward, placing the glass on the coffee table. Both of his hands were in my hair, entangled as I started sucking on him. In a minute, his hips were thrusting up to my face, holding my head in place as he did so. He thrusted deep into my throat, moaning loudly.

"Wait….Wait…."

Oswald pulled my mouth off him. I looked at him reproachfully.

"Ride me." Oswald panted.

I stripped naked and straddled his lap, holding him in place as I slowly sank on him.

"Mmmm….good girl…." Oswald praised, biting his lower lip as my wet walls clenched desperately around his member.

I held onto shoulders, bouncing slowly on him then once he and I had a rhythm going, it was game on. With every descent I made, his hips thrusted up to meet mine. I could be drunk on having sex with Oswald for the rest of my life and be eternally happy.

His hands grabbed my breasts, squeezing them and pinching my nipples. I moaned in response—pain and pleasure all at once, it was a deadly combination with a satisfying end. I rode him until he was all moans and grunts, flooding my walls with his essence. I kissed his cheek smartly, smiling down at him.

"Dinner's ready whenever you are," I told him, getting to my feet.

He took his plate. I took mine and sat beside him.

"Maybe for dessert, I'll dine between your legs," Oswald said, winking at me.


	9. Tom's Demise

Chapter Nine: Tom's Demise

Oswald Cobblepot, restaurant manager.

I smirked inwardly as I waited tables, knowing that my boyfriend was my new boss. It certainly had an appeal to it. He retained a spot within ear shot, listening to Frankie Carbone and Maroni talk, pretending to be preoccupied with drying drinking glasses when his sole attention was on them. Tending to our many patrons, I was more friendly to them, knowing that I no longer had to receive condescending praise from Lou for a job well done—a teenager could do the same job with fewer compliments.

Oswald's comment to me last night—how I distracted him all the time—buzzed in my brain. When he wasn't watching Maroni and Frankie talk, his eyes were on me. A generous boss that he was, he'd given me a new work outfit since the other one was soaked in Lou's blood.

"Garcon!" Frankie called to me. "Could we get new glasses—we have friends coming over."

I rolled my eyes, tending to his table.

"Garcon means 'boy'." I pointed out.

"You would know, wouldn't you?" chuckled Frankie.

"Drunk already and it's not even five," I muttered, taking the glasses from the table and placing them on a tray.

Frankie glanced pointedly at Maroni, saying, "I'm not drunk."

"Then I can't imagine why you're already being so rude," I returned smartly.

Maroni laughed loudly.

"What was I just saying," chuckled Maroni. "A right pistol!"

"Yeah," grumbled Frankie, glaring at me.

I moved past them, placing the glasses at the counter. I looked at Oswald, who held out his hand and placed it on my wrist.

"I know you're not in the best mood," Oswald said softly, "but try a little civility."

"Catching flies with honey instead of vinegar, huh?" I returned, quirking an eyebrow. "You can catch just as many with Raid. But fine. I'll be nicer if that's what you want."

"Thank you." Oswald returned, patting my wrist.

"No problem, Boss."

Never failed to see him smirk when I called him 'boss'. I deposited three fresh glasses on Maroni's table, smiling sweetly at Frankie.

"I apologize for my comment earlier," I told him (honey sweet, indeed). "I'm just a little tired, that's all."

"That's what happens when you're screwing your boss all night." Frankie chuckled, smirking at me.

I felt my face flush a deep shade of red. Maroni looked at me, amused.

"If you need anything else, let me know." I said, feeling my jaw clench.

 _Don't slap him, don't slap him….no stabbing either._

"I won a piece of Arkham," Maroni continued his earlier conversation, "I strong-armed the Mayor. I made Falcone back down, and you're telling me I can't rob a lousy casino?"

I stepped into the kitchen, and rammed my fist into the wall. I was surprised my bones didn't break, but I was paying for it instantly. Pain shot through my knuckles.

"Whoa, whoa!"

Tom hurried over to me, quickly rubbing the blood from my hands and bandaging it.

"You gotta calm down, Sylvia. Don't let them get to you. Maroni's trouble."

"Maroni, I can stand. It's his fucking lap dog that's pissing me off," I remarked harshly. I glanced through the window, watching Maroni and Frank argue about whether or not attacking Falcone's pride and joy would be worth it.

"You could file sexual harassment," Tom suggested.

I stared at him.

He added weakly, "I'm just saying that you could."

"Tom, it's—first off, filing anything in Gotham is more tasking than the actual insult itself. Second: I'm _not_ doing anything of the sort, especially with one of Maroni's goons. I'm just pissed off is all." I leaned against the counter, holding my hand.

"Paolo talked to me this morning," said Tom calmly.

"Who—oh, the boss, right. About what?"

"He said I shouldn't be asking you to take my shift all the time….when I have to leave to get my girls," said Tom quietly. He looked at me reproachfully saying, "Did you ask him to talk to me?"

"I didn't," I replied honestly. "You ask me all the time to cover you though. No one else."

"I know you'll do it for me."

"Am I the only reliable person you have?" I said logically.

"Maybe not. But so far, you're the only one who doesn't give me any push back."

"Has it occurred to you that I have a life to live too?" I questioned coolly. "I won't always take your shifts when you ask, Tom. I hope you'll remember that."

"But your life is here…."

"Meaning what exactly?" I inquired.

Tom frowned uncertainly.

I straightened, taking a step towards him. Under my impenetrable stare, Tom cleared his throat nervously.

"Well….everyone knows."

"Everyone knows _what_?"

I inhaled deeply, hoping to keep calm but failing miserably. Tom smiled weakly.

"You're fucking the boss," Tom said, shrugging his shoulders.

"He was my boyfriend before he was my boss, you know." I told him with forced patience.

"So it's true?" Tom asked, smirking. "You _are_ fucking Penguin."

 _The little_ _bitch_ _._

I caught him by the throat and slammed him into the door, my nails digging into his skin. He grabbed my wrist, choking.

"I _hate_ it when you all call him that. He doesn't like to be called that, but you _insist_." I growled, pushing him harder into the door. Tom's fingers were scratching at my wrist, red marks appearing, but I didn't even feel it.

"I hope you know someone else who will cover your shifts," I snarled. I released him and he fell to the floor, grabbing his throat and coughing. "Because I, sure as hell, won't be."

I stepped over him.

Frankie called for me again.

"Bite me!" I snapped.

"Whoa!" Maroni chuckled, and Frankie was on his feet in an instant.

"What'd you say to me?" Frankie snarled, walking after me.

I turned on my heel, glaring at him.

Just as soon as he was yelling at me, Tom was running out of the kitchen. He looked murderous, red marks lining his throat.

"She just tried to fucking kill me!" Tom shouted, pointing in my direction.

"Oh, piss off," I snapped. "I hardly touched you."

"You choked me!" Tom said, tears filling his eyes. "You tried to kill me, you fucking cunt!"

Oswald and Maroni glanced at each other. Maroni stood to his feet, clearing his throat. Then he took out his gun and shot Tom, right between the eyes. I jumped, eyes wide at the dead body of Tom. I slowly looked up at Maroni, who pocketed the pistol.

"I hate when people call women that," Maroni muttered, shaking his head. "No respect."

I glanced at Oswald, who looked at me with equal surprise. Thinking it was best I get back to work, I hurried into the kitchen. I had never seen so much death occur in a restaurant!

0.

Maroni and Frankie with company left the diner to attend to business only god-knows-where. I finished serving my last customers (who left me a $20 tip) and I walked to my boss' office. Gently, I knocked.

"Come."

I entered the room, seeing Oswald sitting in the boss chair, eyes looking over the bills, left hand scribbling notes. Seeing me, he dropped his pen, and lied back in his chair.

"Close the door." Oswald ordered.

I kicked the bottom of it with my foot and the door closed with a click.

"Mind telling me what just happened?" he questioned

"Tom was shot."

"I figured that much," Oswald returned sarcastically, getting to his feet. He rounded the desk, leaning his back against the front of it. "What happened in the kitchen?"

"Oh, _that_." I muttered, rolling my eyes.

He watched me with narrowed eyes as I approached him, taking a seat in the chair that was situated in front of his desk.

"He asked me why you talked to him about my taking his shifts and he made it sound like I tattled." I returned calmly.

"That's why you attacked him?" Oswald questioned, crossing his arms.

"No—and how dare you automatically assume that I did!"

"I'm sorry. Did you?" Oswald retorted coolly.

"Of course I did," I replied sheepishly, crossing one leg over my knee.

Oswald sighed sharply in annoyance.

"What?" I reproached. "It's not like he didn't deserve it!"

"One of my employees gets attacked by another employee; the former gets shot in the head. That doesn't quite follow, does it?" Oswald scolded.

I leaned back in my chair, looking him over. Oswald certainly fit into the boss role really well, didn't he?

"He accused me of fucking my boss," I pointed out calmly.

"And _that_ set you off?" Oswald chuckled cynically.

"No. He referred to you as 'Penguin'."

Oswald frowned.

"You don't like the name," I said quietly, getting to my feet. Standing before him. "It disrespects you, does it not?"

"Yes." Oswald answered calmly.

"You're my lover first, and my boss second," I returned, placing my hands on his suit; I straightened his tie, and he looked at me with reproachful eyes. "If anyone disrespects you, they disrespect _me_. And I will not tolerate that. And _that_ is why I attacked the poor bastard."

Oswald looked at me as though he had something else to say, but the words seemed to catch in his throat. His eyelids fluttered, like he was looking at something more than just myself….like I'd morphed into a goddess of light. He took my hands in his, his eyes casting down at them for a moment. He took a deep breath, and shakily uttered the words I had longed to hear.

"I love you."

I smiled when he looked fearful for a brief second, all the insecurities of a man crashing through the surface. I leaned forward, kissing his cheek.

"I know," I told him sweetly. "I love you too."

He let out a huge sigh of relief, and smiled blissfully at me.


	10. Heart to Heart

Chapter Ten: Heart To Heart

* * *

Thanks to my smart comment towards Frankie Carbone ("Bite me!"), and my attack on Tom, and the untimely demise that followed on behalf of the one and only Don Salvatore Maroni, I was given a week's 'suspension'. By that meaning, I was getting a paid vacation—Maroni considered it a service to have done away with a sleazy guy like Tom, and both he and Oswald agreed that I needed some R&R.

When Oswald awoke to get ready for work, I was up, making breakfast. He and I smiled at each other in acknowledgment before he went into the bathroom; I heard the shower running, and I anticipated the smell of cologne and soap that would follow when he and I embraced.

My cell phone went off as I was setting the table and Oswald, fully dressed in his suit, came into the kitchen, taking a seat at the table as I put his plate in front of him. He grinned like a little boy, happy with the pancakes and sausage and banana on it. I answered the phone, expecting Jim. Instead, I heard a female's voice.

"Sylvia, are you available for a lunch date?" she said.

"Barbara?" I muttered. "Why are you calling from Jim's phone?"

"He had your number on speed dial."

"That doesn't really answer my question," I said, sitting at the table with Oswald, who looked at me curiously. "Are you okay? You sound worried."

"Why would I be worried?"

I shrugged, saying, "You're engaged to a police officer, and a hard-headed one at that, Barb. You have every reason to be. What's up?"

"I need to talk to someone."

"Why not Jim?"

"He's…. we're not really talking at the moment."

Ah….

Oswald watched as I engaged my future sister-in-law in what appeared to be a therapeutic session (for her, not for me). While it wasn't the first time Barbara had called me for a girl's chat, it certainly was the first time regarding my own brother. Her voice was soft, like she was making a secret collect call.

"So, can you make it?" Barbara asked hopefully.

"My boss recently gave me some time off," I chuckled, smirking at Oswald who returned the small mischievous smile. "I can meet you. Where do you want to go?"

"Could you meet me here?"

"At your place?"

"Yes," said Barbara, her voice becoming a little softer. "Jim is acting…. odd."

"He's a cop," I said, shrugging again. "Have you considered that…."

Barbara hissed, "Don't tell me he's doing it to keep me safe."

"Well, what do you want me to say? Dad was the same way, you know. He kept secrets all the time. It's the way of the business; it's a family trait, passed on from generation to generation. And Jim is no different."

" _You_ don't have any secrets," Barbara pointed out.

Oswald finished the sausage and with two full cheeks, he looked at me, reminding me of a chipmunk. I suppressed a laugh. If Barbara only knew my secret.

"I'll come as soon as I'm finished eating," I stated.

"Thank you. Thank you very much."

"You're welcome. I'll see you soon."

"Thanks again."

 _Click_.

I placed the phone on the table, sighing. Oswald's look of concern deepened.

"I imagine your afternoon will be busy," Oswald noted.

I shook my head.

"That was Barbara. She wants to talk."

"About what? Whom?"

"Jim, it appears. He's keeping secrets from her."

Oswald said with a hint of sarcasm, "Like what, exactly?"

I nudged his uninjured leg with my foot playfully and he grinned broadly at me. _Shameless_.

"You _know_ what. Jim wouldn't tell her about you. But she suspects something."

Barbara was in trouble, deeply troubled by Jim's profession and secretive personality. I admitted that ever since Oswald's return back to my life, Jim had become more edgy, but otherwise, normal and high-strung. Barbara, of course, didn't know who Oswald Cobblepot was or why or how Jim was tied into it. If Barbara had an inkling of what might have happened or what had changed Jim, it was certainly driving her crazy.

I wouldn't be doing her any favors. I sure as hell wouldn't be telling her about Oswald any time soon.

"Everyone else thinks I'm a dead man." Oswald said dismissively, digging into his pancakes. "Maybe she assumes that your brother killed me." He looked up pointedly, adding as an afterthought, "Everyone else does."

I smiled saying, "And how would she assume such a thing?"

"My dear, you should know better than anyone else the way rumors spread in Gotham," Oswald returned. "Like a brush fire."

I debated in turn: "She lives in a sheltered world. The only time she knows there's bad stuff happening in Gotham is if Jim tells her."

"You don't tell her anything?" Oswald countered.

"I don't tell her anything." I reaffirmed. "Barbara's innocent—it's annoying, really. She knows about me as much as Jim has told her."

"Meaning?"  
"She thinks I am a trouble maker, but nothing more." I said smoothly, getting up to fetch a second cup of coffee. "Jim hasn't told her the times I've been arrested, or countless other crimes of which I've been guilty. So, I doubt he'd come out and say he killed a man."

Oswald smiled deviously: "He _didn't_."

"I'm aware," I returned, gesturing to him. "She'd be in complete denial, of course, if she did hear any sort of rumor."

"I can't imagine why. _You_ seem content with murder," Oswald said smoothly, licking his lips.

I said sheepishly, "In my defense, _I_ never killed anyone."

"You shot one of our hired gentlemen in the face," Oswald reminded, allowing me to recall the man that had also tried to rape me on top of the dead former manager.

I pointed at him saying, "You _know_ that was self-defense."

Oswald slowly got to his feet and slightly staggered towards the counter, setting his plate in the kitchen sink. He took a step towards me, placing one hand on the back of my chair, the other caressed my face.

"And had it not been self-defense, would you have delivered the same sentence?"

"He tried to take what wasn't his," I said softly. "What's _yours_." I grinned darkly, adding, "I'd have killed him either way."

Pleased with my response, Oswald grinned widely, whispering, "I count myself lucky then."

He lowered his head to mine for a short and tender kiss. He moved to withdraw; I caught his tie, and pulled him back so as to deepen the kiss. First it was quick, sweet pecks, then as he reciprocated with the same heat, the kissing became more passionate. Then I heard him sigh in protest.

"I have to go," Oswald sighed, withdrawing reluctantly. "Breakfast was delicious, as always."

I beamed with his approval.

"That reminds me," Oswald noted suddenly.

I looked at him curiously as he moved to the refrigerator, opening the door and gesturing to the lower shelf. Inside was a pink box, unlabeled.

"What's that?" I asked.

"If you don't mind," said Oswald smoothly, "I would like you to run something of an errand for me. I was going to do it myself, but seeing as I'm running a little behind…."

I took the box off the shelf, looking inside.

"What's this?"

"Cannoli," Oswald answered.

I looked at him questionably.

"It's for the hired help," he explained.

"Isn't that sweet," I mused. "Why the extended generosity?"

I placed the box on the counter; he closed the refrigerator door. In one smooth movement, his arms wrapped around my waist, his body pinned me between himself and the counter. His lips touched mine briefly in a light kiss.

"There's a price to be paid when one needs to tie up loose ends," said Oswald softly. He cradled my face with one hand, his thumb sliding over my lower lip. "But the cost goes up when someone tries to hurt my employee."

"You told me the other night that you'd already killed them."

"Perhaps I'd gotten ahead of myself."

"Or perhaps you had one glass of wine too many?"

"Regardless, here we are."

"So, by that, I am guessing that there's more than just ricotta cheese in those pastries?" I presumed quietly.

Oswald smiled deviously before pressing his lips against mine, tender at first then when I returned it, it became passionate as the last.

"He didn't really hurt me, you know," I reminded softly.

Oswald nipped my bottom lip, saying, "Like you said, Pet. He tried to take what isn't his. I won't have anyone stealing what is mine."

I pushed my hips against his, smirking when I heard him sigh longingly.

"Oswald, your jealousy is showing."

He looked at me reproachfully.

"But I _like_ it." I whispered, grinning darkly. I pushed myself against him once more, and he did the same to me, extracting a wanton keen from my lips.

We kissed a while longer.

"I thought you said you're running late." I mumbled.

"I am."

"Then you best get a move on, yeah?"

He pulled away from me reluctantly, straightening his tie and jacket.

"You don't mind taking it to them, do you?" Oswald asked.

"I'll take care of it." I returned, smirking as I put the top on the box. "It'll be my pleasure."

"Be pleasant," Oswald reminded.

"Don't worry, I've got this. You have _nothing_ to worry about."

"I appreciate the favor."

I walked with him to the door, smiling when he kissed me on the cheek.

"Don't even mention it," I said, shrugging. "I'd do anything for you, Oz. Tell Maroni I said 'hi', will you? Assuming, of course, that he lets you get a word in."

"He wants the casino badly enough—he'll listen to me."

Oswald buttoned his jacket, smoothing out the little wrinkles that had tried to envelope in the fine fabric during our brief making out.

"You sound pretty certain about that," I noted as he buttoned his cuff links. "Confidence looks good on you, Boss."

Oswald smirked at me. He just _loved_ hearing me call him that.

"Let me know when you get to her apartment," Oswald said calmly, although I could detect that familiar protective tone like I normally heard in Jim's voice.

"Call or text?" I asked.

"Whichever," Oswald said.

"Oooh, I get choices—you spoil me." I teased.

"You make it too easy," he returned.

He and I kissed one more time.

"I love you," Oswald whispered.

"Love you too, Oswald."

He smiled happily and then left for work.

* * *

I headed over to Barbara and Jim's apartment, parking the car on the curb. As I headed up the elevator (because I certainly was not going to be using the stairs), I pulled out my phone and hit number 1 on the speed dial.

When the other line picked up, I said calmly, "I'm here."

"Let me know when you leave," Oswald returned firmly.

In the background, I could hear Maroni's familiar Italian accent coming out, more talk about the casino. The elevator door opened and I made my way towards the apartment.

"I will." I promised.

"Good. I love you."

"And I, you."

He and I hung up at the same time. Then I knocked on Barbara's door. She opened it almost immediately, startling me in the process. Her eyes were red, looking as though she had been crying or maybe she hadn't been sleeping either—or both. But she smiled briefly when she saw it was I who had knocked. Eagerly, she stepped to the side and allowed my entry.

"You got here a little faster than I thought you would," she said.

I turned to her as she closed the door.

"Well, I figured you needed the company. You sounded worried on the phone."

Barbara's smile disappeared.

"Let's sit, shall we?" Barbara offered, gesturing to the kitchen.

I took a seat at the table while she poured two glasses of wine. I doubted she needed the alcohol at this moment but I didn't protest.

"You like red wine, don't you?"

I nodded.

"I prefer chardonnay, but I'm afraid we're out. I normally get it from the store down the street, it's only a few blocks from here, actually." Barbara said, her voice shook a little. "Sometimes I go out of my way, outside of Gotham. There's a winery…."

"Barbara."

She looked at me, startled.

"You're rambling," I pointed out.

Barbara smiled weakly, saying, "I'm sorry."

She interlaced her fingers together to hide the shaking, placing them on the table in front of her. Her eyes were cast downward as though she was shifting through the numerous files of countless dilemmas in her head and then she slowly looked at me, realizing for a moment that I'd been sitting in front of her the entire time.

When I first met Barbara Kean, I thought she was a snob. Her hair was always finely brushed, not a lock out of place. She had these startling blue eyes that could make a man or woman's heart stop beating and then electrically shock right back to its lively pulse. Her voice was always hallowed, always calm and proper. I'd never met her parents—I doubted I would like them.

But seeing her now, Barbara had changed a little. Worry lines were a constant on her forehead, and her eyes were dull.

"You wanted to talk about Jim." I mentioned calmly. "You said he was acting odd, keeping secrets from you."

She nodded.

"What do you think he's keeping from you?" I asked curiously. I took the wine and sipped it a minute, placing it back.

"MCU came by the house," Barbara said quietly, looking at me strangely.

I rolled my eyes.

"Major Crimes?"

"Yes," said Barbara. "Well…. not on business, exactly."

"What does that mean?"

"Do you know Montoya?"

I nodded, "I'm familiar with the name, but I have never met her personally."

Barbara leaned forward, her eyes darkening.

"She came by the apartment, told me that Jim murdered someone."

"Mario Pepper's death was a frame job, but he never killed him." I recalled.

"Not him, someone _else_ ," Barbara said, shaking her head. "Someone I don't know, someone that Jim won't talk to me about."

"Who does Montoya think Jim killed _this_ time?" I questioned, unable to hide the cynicism in my tone.

"A man by the name of Oswald Cobblepot. She asked me to ask Jim about him, but when I did, he couldn't tell me anything," said Barbara softly. She looked at me pointedly, "Do you know a man by that name?"

"Can't say I do," I lied. "But you know…if Jim can't tell you anything, he's likely trying to protect you—don't give me that look—you know it's true. In your heart, you do. And what does Montoya actually know, huh? Does she have proof?"

"No."  
"Does she have witnesses?"

"I don't know—she didn't tell me anything."

"Then you're worried about nothing, aren't you?" I said calmly.

Barbara stood up suddenly, and started pacing the kitchen. She leaned against the table, a hand shuffling roughly through her hair as she looked at me with frustration.

"You know Jim better than anyone else," said Barbara. "If you knew something that I didn't—concerning a murder—you would tell me, wouldn't you?"

"Barbara..."

" _Wouldn't you_!"

I leaned back in my chair, pushing the wine away. Then she sighed, closing her eyes in a prayer for patience before smiling sadly at me.

"I'm sorry for snapping…." She whispered. "I'm just _so_ worried about him, you know. I love him, more than anything in the world, and I feel like he's keeping secrets from me. I don't like it. How do you deal with it?"

"I don't deal with it—I accept it for what it is, and I move on," I answered honestly. "Jim has always had secrets. Being a cop demands that kind of mystery. That's why most of the cops in the joint are either single, divorced, or cheating on their spouses. But Jim loves you, and he does whatever he can to keep you safe."

Barbara sat down. Silence passed between us for a moment.

"He talks about your past," said Barbara quietly. "He says you've been in trouble a few times."

"Well, this isn't our first conversation," I reminded. "I've told you a few of them myself."

"Yeah—you mentioned you took mail from mail boxes and you've taken a pack of cigarettes from a convenient store, but you never mentioned that you used to…."  
"To what?" I asked.

"Jim says you've mugged people," said Barbara quietly. "And you've robbed a couple banks….is that true?"

I nodded.

"I thought you said you didn't keep any secrets?" Barbara asked calmly.

"I never said that," I replied. "I have a lot of secrets. Too many. Not everything I say or do gets told to you. In that aspect, Jim and I are very much alike."

"So, you don't know what he's hiding either?"

"Is that the reason you asked me to come?" I responded.

Barbara frowned.

Apparently, it was.

I drank the rest of the sour wine, holding back a horrid grimace. She watched me resentfully.

"Montoya said he killed Oswald Cobblepot," said Barbara. "Said he did it on the orders of Carmine Falcone. Would that sound like something Jim would do?"

"I can see you're trying to extract information from me, and that's all fine and dandy," I said sarcastically, "but let me ask you something first. Why would Montoya, high-standing officer of Major Crimes Unit, come to the fiancée of her suspect with these accusations without evidence or testimony?"

Barbara pressed her lips together. Guilty.

I approached her.

"We're friends," Barbara said quickly.

"Friends? Really…." I smiled knowingly. "Is that all?"

"Fine. We were more than that—but that doesn't take away from what she told me," Barbara said curtly. "Does that sound like something Jim would do?"

"You're engaged to the man. Shouldn't you know the answer to that?" I chuckled. "That Montoya woman really put her hooks into you, didn't she?"

"Don't patronize me," Barbara snapped. "I'm asking you because you _know_ Jim. You grew up with him."

"I'm aware."

"So, you'd know what he's capable of—more than anyone else, right?"  
I nodded.

"Do you think he did it?"

Her voice was pleading, begging for me to tell her otherwise. She didn't want the truth at all; she wanted someone to tell her that Jim was incapable of killing a man in cold blood. By this time, we were standing close, with our voices rising to the ceiling.

"Jim is capable of killing someone, Barbara. When I first heard the rumor, I'll admit that I thought he did." I told her truthfully. Barbara let out a dry sob. "But, _but…_." I took her hands in mine. "I know for a fact that he didn't kill anyone."

"How do you know?" Barbara said, her voice barely over a whisper.

"Like you said—I know Jim," I returned gently. "And Jim stands on a moral ground thicker than a rainforest."

Barbara gripped my hands hard, looking not just into my eyes, but through them. She was trying to see if I was lying to comfort her, but what I said was true, forgiving the fact that my proof lived inside my apartment. Full of relief, for now, Barbara let out a long, deep sigh and hugged me close to her.

"Thank you," she said quietly. "But…."

"But?"

"I need to hear it from him," Barbara said quietly. "I just do."

"Good luck with that endeavor," I muttered as she withdrew. "You're trying to open a safe that's been locked for eons—he's a stubborn jackass."

Barbara laughed shakily, smiling at me.

"I know. But thanks for coming over. I just needed to talk to someone who knew him, you know? Gather some insight."

"So, what will you ask him when the time presents itself?" I asked, sitting and leaning back in the same chair.

"I want half of what he has to carry," Barbara stated, business-like. "He carries my half easily."

"What _is_ your half?" I questioned.

Barbara gave me a look that read 'don't ask', but it was obviously unreasonable since I'd already done so. I dismissed the question carelessly.

"How's the art gallery?" I asked conversationally. "Any new pieces of interest?"

"Not really. Most of it is drab, I have to admit."

"No buyers?"

"All are buyers," said Barbara, taking the first sip of her wine. She made the same grimacing expression, coughing shortly after. "Ah! This is terrible!"

I gestured to my empty glass saying, "But drinkable."

She stood and threw the rest of it down the kitchen sink, looking at me humorously.

"Have you eaten lunch yet?" She asked.

"No."

"Do you want to eat lunch here?"

I nodded, saying, "I have the time."

Barbara smiled happily.


	11. When the Pet Loves the Boss

Chapter Eleven: When the Pet Loves the Boss

The hired help had taken an apartment within Gotham's city limits. I'd walked up the stairs, the box of pastries in my hand, and knocked on the door. There was a fumbling around and I could hear the men inside talking harshly in whispers. The youthful one of the three answered the door, gun pointed in my face.

Seeing me, he quickly apologized.

"I thought you were someone else!" He let out a breathy laugh, and allowed me inside.

I looked around the apartment—nothing much to look at. The walls were white, and dull, and the furniture (if one called it that) was just a couple of boxes and a pail bucket turned upside down, suitable for another chair. I closed the door behind me as the youthful one took his seat, all three of them watching me expectantly.

"We were expecting the other guy," the oldest gentleman of the bunch said politely, gesturing to my presence. "Thought he'd come by."

"He was running late for work," I returned calmly.

"Bet he's enjoying that new position, eh?" chuckled the youthful one.

"Speaking of which," I said, placing the box on my lap, "I must commend you for killing the manager."

"Yeah, no one saw it coming," the oldest said, laughing lowly.

The middle-aged one had remained quiet, but now spoke.

"We're sorry about what happened with Ron," he said quietly.

"With whom?" I asked.

"The one that…."

He meant the man that had tried raping me. Apparently, word had gone out to them—his body had appeared in the papers anyway, what was left of it after Maroni finished with him.

"You have to understand," said the youthful one. "We didn't know he was going to do anything like that, honest. We'd have pulled him away if we'd been there, you know. We don't…."

"Don't worry about it," I insisted.

"Still though—raping a woman ain't good news. On either end," said the youth. "But the people bought the robbery, right?"

"Yes."

"So why did he send you?" asked the eldest, looking at me curiously. "Ain't you his girlfriend, or something?"

"I am," I replied.

"You work for him too, though?"

"I do."  
"That's kinda hot," said the eldest, smirking at me. "Boss and employee thing always can make a man feel good. You call him 'boss' in bed?"

"That's an inappropriate thing to ask," I stated coolly.

The eldest shrugged, saying, "Call him 'boss' when it's all business, then his name when it's all casual. Sounds like a good thing going, you know."

Well, the guy wasn't wrong.

The youthful one looked at the box in my hands.

"What's that?" He asked.

"Look for yourself," I returned, handing the box to them.

They peered inside, and they were all happy.

"Boss wanted to commemorate your success, so he made it for you all," I told them. "He was very pleased with the aftermath. Very convincing, he said."

"Oh yeah! These are amazing!"

All three started digging in like their lives depended on it. I watched them eat like little piggies. I felt my phone vibrate in my pocket and excused myself to answer.

"Hello?"

"Hello there."

I startled, hearing Maroni's voice.

"Good Afternoon, Miss Gordon," Maroni said slyly.

"Afternoon yourself, Don Maroni," I answered dully.

"I'm sure you're wondering why it was me who answered the phone instead of your boss, right? Well—in a way, I guess I'm _also_ your boss, but let's not dwell on technicalities, huh?"

I glanced at the three goons eating, then side-stepped further away.

"Is Paolo okay?" I asked.

"We're far beyond that, Miss Gordon. Might as well call him by his real name."

 _Ah, shit_.

"I'd like you to be on your way," said Maroni darkly. "Your vacation will have to be cut short. I'd like you to come down to the restaurant so we can have a little talk, okay?"

"Is Oswald okay?" I asked.

"That'll depend strictly on your timeliness. And don't bother going to the cops—your brother is already on his way with an associate of mine. And if you choose not to come, I can have one of my friends go to your apartment…."

"That's not necessary. I'll come." I said quickly.

"Good girl. I'll see you then."

 _Click_.

Then I realized that the chatter and yum sounds had died away. I walked back into what could be called the living room, finding the three hired employees on the ground moaning quietly as their mouths filled with foam and their eyes widened with shock and fear. Then their moans died away, just like the rest of them.

Amused, I said aloud, "He must have went heavy on the poison, didn't he?"

I stepped over them, lifting the bag of money that they'd taken from Maroni over my shoulder and headed down in the elevator, placing the same bag in the trunk. I ran the red lights and stop signs to get to the restaurant. When I pulled up, a large brusque of a man was waiting for me with a gun in his hand.

"Sylvia Gordon."

"Don't play dumb, Gabe," I scolded. "You know who I am."

"Come with me." He muttered.

As he led me into the restaurant, he also added, "You smell nice."

"Thanks," I said with a smile.

I saw Oswald sitting next to Maroni, beat up and bleeding. Across from him was Jim Gordon, who looked at me pointedly as I took the last empty seat beside him.

"Why is she here?" Jim questioned coldly, glancing at me then at Maroni.

"I like her company," lied Maroni, smirking at me. "Now….here's the deal. Our friend here just told me a fascinating story, such a great story I'd never heard before—It's hard to believe it's true."

"It's true, I swear!" Oswald interjected.

"SHUT UP! SHUT UP!" Maroni shouted furiously, and he held a lobster claw to his face.

I didn't know what I was ready to do, but I began to rise to my feet, but Jim grabbed my shoulder and pushed me back down.

"You talk one more time, I'll jam this thing down your throat!" Maroni threatened Oswald. He turned to me. "And you—you stay seated, you hear me!"

Maroni shook his head, looking at Jim.

"She's a pistol," said Maroni with a dark chuckle, glancing in my direction. "I can definitely tell you two are related. So as I was saying...I try to be polite, but I don't talk repeating myself. Here's how it's going to work…."

"Mr. Maroni, I don't know you—" Jim began.

Maroni interrupted him, temper flaring: "No, no, no. I'm talking right now. You'll have your chance to speak!"

Jim silenced, looking at me. What a great reunion this was, between my boyfriend and my brother. It was like every time the three of us met, one of us was eyes-deep in shit.

"Okay," said Maroni. "Now….I want you to tell me the same story that Penguin told me."

"What story is that?" Jim questioned, playing dumb.  
"Oh, you better know what story," threatened Maroni softly. "Because if you tell me the same story he told me, then I can believe it. Then I am happy. But if you tell me a different story—oh mama—then one of yous is lying. I won't know which, so then both of you are dead. And she…." He nodded his head to the side in my direction, "Will die too. On merit."

I'd never felt my heart beat so fast.

Jim looked at me in such a way that begged me to answer why I was still with Oswald, why I insisted on getting into trouble after all these years. But my life was on the line, all of our lives were.

"Understand?" Maroni questioned.

"Yes. I do." Jim returned.

"Good. So Jim….tell me a story."

He took a moment then he spoke.

"Someone murdered Thomas and Martha Wayne. My partner and I caught the case—"

Oswald said quickly, "We didn't even know each other!"

"WHAT DID I JUST SAY!" Maroni bellowed. "Take him"—Frankie and two others grabbed Oswald, and I made to get out of my seat—"To the slicer and if I don't like what I hear, slice his face! You! Hold her down!"

Gabe came up behind me, grabbed my shoulders and forced me down.

"I don't know what you see in that guy," Maroni said to me. "You stay seated, little girl. You hear me?"

"I swear to god—," I began.

"Do you _hear_ me!" Maroni snapped.

I looked up at Gabe, who wearily kept his hands on me while Jim looked at me carefully. I heard the slicer turn on.

"If you don't, I'll end the conversation here," Maroni warned. "And I will have him killed _right_ now. Understand, Sylvia? Look at me. Do you understand?"

I nodded.

"Good." Maroni said, leaning back. He gestured to Gabe and I felt his hands leave me. "I'm sorry, Jim. Please. Go on."

Jim continued monotonously.

"I was a pawn, in a conspiracy between Falcone, the Mayor, and the GCPD to frame Mario Pepper for the Wayne Murders, with the help of Fish Mooney, Mr. Cobblepot's employer at the time. Mr. Cobblepot then told the whole story to the MCU. To ensure that I would not betray the conspiracy, Mr. Falcone ordered for me to kill Mr. Cobblepot. I didn't do it. I let him live. And here we are."

"Falcone, Mooney, MCU—none of them know he's alive?" Maroni questioned slowly.

"If they did, I wouldn't be alive right now," said Jim truthfully.

"And her?" said Maroni, gesturing to me.

"She knew." Jim admitted, glancing at me. "She hasn't told anyone."

Maroni looked at me.

"Clearly not," said Maroni, smirking. "You must have an interesting life, Sylvia—dating the Penguin and having Jim for a brother."

"It certainly keeps me on my toes," I grumbled, glaring at Gabe who was still enforcing my restraint.

Maroni stood to his feet.

"FRANKIE! Bring the Penguin back out here! The little punk is telling the truth!" Maroni called.

The slicer was turned off, and I let out a sigh of relief. Jim looked at me and I returned the glance. As Frankie Carbone and another unnamed gentleman brought Oswald back to the table, I quickly stood. Gabe made a point to put his hands on my shoulders to keep me on my chair, but Maroni waved his hand calling off the guard dog.

"Thank you, Jim. Good story. Told well. Lot of guys in your position, they freak out." Maroni told Jim, who stood slowly to his feet at this point.

Maroni put his arms around Oswald, saying, "Come here, you rat, you snitch, you glorious turncoat, I love you!" He grinned widely at Frankie, adding, "Smile, Frankie. We just got a new weapon against Falcone—it's Christmas."

"Happy Holidays," Jim grumbled. "Can I go now?"

"Oh, yeah, Jim. You can go. But…." Maroni said, "let's just keep this hush-hush between us friends, huh? And if I need you again, I'll call you."

Jim looked at him as though he didn't want to see Maroni's face ever again. Then Jim placed his hand on my wrist and pulled me to the side, out of ear shot from the others. I hesitated, not wanting to be away from Oswald after what just happened but Jim insisted, so I relented.

"I know, I know," I said quickly.

"You don't know what I'm about to say," Jim snapped.

"I kind of do," I said coolly. "You're going to disparage me for being with Oswald and getting you into this mess, but I should remind you that you'd be in this mess with or without my involvement."

Jim let out a scathing noise, saying, "It's only going to get messy."

"With you, most things do." I pointed out. "Me, I'm used to this. It's like my every day routine—I get caught up in this kind of thing every week. So don't worry about me."

Jim rolled his eyes.

"Besides," I added, "You should be more concerned with Barbara."

Boom, immediate worry.

"What, why?" Jim said quickly. "What happened?"

"Nothing urgent," I answered, placing my hand on his arm. "But she talked to me a little today."

"About?"

"This whole thing," I returned, gesturing to Maroni. "With Oswald. You need to talk to her, Jim."

"I've talked to her already."

"Like _really_ talk to her."

"I'm not going to tell her about Cobblepot," said Jim coarsely. He looked at me, that look in his eye. "Did you tell her anything?"  
"Of course not," I hissed. "Why would I? Besides, she's _your_ fiancee. But, Jim. You have to realize something. She's not just worried about you, she's hurting. She thinks you're keeping secrets from her."

"I am." Jim acknowledged, "But I'm only trying—"

"To protect her, I got it," I interrupted. "But she clearly doesn't want protection. She wants to know what you know. If that's what she wants, let her have it. Let her know what you know—after she knows what you know, she may not want to know anything else. It's wham, bam, thank you, ma'am, sending a thank-you card or two."

Jim gave me a look, saying, "You have a really crude sense of humor."

I pretended to be hurt then said coyly, "Aw, shucks—but you knew that already. But you might want to think it over."

"I will," said Jim. He glanced at his watch. "I have to get back to work."

"Working the Viper case, huh?"

"Yeah."

"How's that going."

"Not well."

"Hopefully, you'll catch the prick," I said. "Some guy came by my apartment and handed me some."

"I hope you didn't take it."

"I did, but I threw it out the window."

"You didn't breathe any of it," Jim clarified.

"I'm alive, aren't I?" I pointed out.

He looked at his watch again, then glanced up at Maroni who was talking some details in a hushed tone with Oswald and Frankie.

"I have to go," he said.

"Go," I insisted.

"Be careful, won't you?"

"Always," I answered cheekily.

Jim kissed my forehead then left in a rush.

.0

When Oswald had become restaurant manager, I'd become something of a shift leader. I decided who was doing what, when, where, and I accounted for the bodies in and out of the restaurant. Since I was already at work after everything that had happened, I was going through the calendar, crossing out individuals who were either on vacation or sick, and filling in names of all who would be on the clock tonight. I made a copy for the break room and then placed the original in one of the binders in Oswald's office.

I heard the door open, and I turned to see the owner standing in the doorway. He'd cleaned himself up for the most part, minus the bruises and cuts on his face from where the men had roughed him up. He hobbled inside, and closed the door. I watched him expectantly as he sat in his chair.

"I'm sorry you had to be a part of that," Oswald told me apologetically.

"Don't worry about it." I returned genuinely with a smile. "I liked it."

"You _liked_ it?"

"Well, not the part when they put you on the slicer," I admitted. "I thought it was pretty exciting though."

Oswald tilted his head to the side, saying, "You're an odd woman, you know that?"

I shrugged, unashamed.

"So what's the plan now?" I asked, sitting on the edge of his desk.

"As a test of trust," said Oswald calmly, "I will be heading out with Don Maroni to the casino. I've spoken to the janitor who works in the boiler room; he's agreed to let his men inside so as to rob the place. After that, I'll be in his inner circle."

I placed the binder behind me, looking at Oswald closely.

"Perhaps I should go."

"With me?"  
"No," I said, shaking my head. "To the casino. I'll make sure the janitor does what he's supposed to do."

"You're not going anywhere," said Oswald firmly. "You're going to be here."

"You'll put everything to chance with a custodian?" I questioned incredulously.

"I persuaded him to be reliable," Oswald stated coolly.

"But he's a janitor…."

"Doesn't matter. He'll do what he's told."  
"Oswald…."

He gave me a stern look, and I frowned.

"You have Maroni breathing down on your neck right now, Oz. Yet you will place your confidence in a man you've only spoken to twice, relying on this guy to get Maroni's men in and out of Falcone's Casino all in one piece?"

Oswald watched me move off the desk and I knelt down between his legs, my hands on his knees. He smiled down at me.

"Let _me_ do it," I insisted. "I'll meet the janitor in the boiler room. That way, if something happens, I'll be there to make sure it goes smoothly."

"So eager," Oswald mused, placing his hand on my head. "But I can't have you go."

"Why the hell not?"

"It'll be dangerous."

"Fuck danger," I said wistfully. "Didn't I just tell you I like it. You have a lot riding on this, Boss."

"Keep talking like that, and I'll have something for _you_ to ride." Oswald said darkly.

I raised my eyebrows in surprise, then smiled. My eagerness to carry out his plan had apparently caused him some pleasurable discomfort. His semi-erection was trying to push through his custom-fit pants. My kneeling between his legs probably helped it along too.

"I told you," I whispered. "You're my lover first, and my boss second. You can't argue that I'm great at being a lover. But I can be so much more for you at your work, if you'd allow me to be."

"I don't want you to get hurt," Oswald implored.

"I've been hurt before," I hushed.

Oswald glanced at the fading scar on my collar bone from where Fish had marked me.

"And I took the pain easily. I'd be a great asset to you. Just as you let me love you, let me _work_ foryou."

Oswald said curiously, "What do you get out of it, me telling you what to do?"

"Maybe it's my thing," I said mischievously. "Maybe I like being told what to do. Inside of me is a little pet, who only longs to please her boss, to ensure that he succeeds in all things." I placed my chin on his knee. "So what do you say?"

Oswald played with my locks, smiling at me.

"Fine." Oswald said quietly. "But, not this time around."

" _Fuck_. Why **not**?" I pouted.

"Because I said so."

I stood to my feet, ready to leave, but he caught my wrist and pulled me back. I looked at him reproachfully.

"How did the visit go with our 'friends'?" Oswald asked—his voice was business-like, and it did things to me.

"They liked the Cannoli," I answered with a smile.

"Were you pleasant?"

"Indeed, I was, boss."

Oswald lifted my hand to his lips and kissed the inside of my wrist.

"Good girl." He commended.

I beamed, "Thank you, sir."

With that said, I left the office, grinning ear-to-ear.


	12. Jim Is Almost Arrested

Chapter Twelve: Jim Is Almost Arrested

* * *

It wasn't the tenth time I had received a call from Gertrude Kapelput. It was more or less the thirtieth one in a week.

"You need to give him back," Gertrude said harshly. "He hasn't called his mother for so long—he's been tangled up with you!"

"Hello to you too, Mrs. Kapelput," I answered.

Dial tone afterwards.

Forgetting I'd left the door unlocked, I was startled when it opened. Luckily, it was Oswald who came in. He looked relieved, smiling at me.

"I'm assuming it went well since you're alive," I pointed out, placing my phone on the table.

"Perfectly," Oswald commented.

"You _need_ to see your mom," I told him curtly.

"Did she call you again?"

"She called me thirty-something times this week alone. She'll call, tell me to give you back to her, then hang up. One time, she called me a 'hussy'."

"Someone's in a mood," Oswald noted.

"I have a headache," I told him quietly as I lied down on the couch.

I heard him move to the bathroom, the door closing. The shower turning on. The glass of wine I had earlier was starting to churn in my belly, but not in the most unpleasant way. The thought of Oswald in the shower, water running through his hair and down his body… _what a great image_.

I turned on the television, switching to the news.

There was talk about some goat killing rich kids. Only in Gotham.

I smelled cologne and soap; I smiled when Oswald, dressed in a robe, had approached me. I moved so he could sit down and then I placed my head on his lap. His hands moved throughout my hair, massaging my scalp; I closed my eyes, enjoying the sensation.

"I'll see Mother tomorrow," Oswald said softly.

"Should I come too?" I asked.

"Do you want to?"

I shrugged, saying, "She probably won't like it. She doesn't really like me that much."

"She likes you," Oswald protested.

I turned on my back, looking up at him.

"I have a hard time believing that when she's calling me a slut over the phone," I reminded him coolly.

He smiled.

"She just has to get used to you. That's all. For the longest time, it has always been just the two of us," Oswald reasoned. "The last thing she wants is for me to leave."

"Well, Oz. What will she do if she finds out you want to marry me one day?"

He said nothing.

I sat up.

"You still _want_ that, don't you?" I asked curiously.

"Of course, I do."

"Then shouldn't you tell Gertrude that I am more than just a friend of yours?"

"I suppose you're right," Oswald muttered.

I kissed his cheek.

"If it'll cause problems, you can let it be."

"Why would it cause a problem?"

"You just look nervous about telling her that I'm the love of your life," I pointed out slyly.

"I'm not nervous."

"You seem nervous."

Oswald sighed, sounding annoyed. I ignored it.

"We'll see what happens," Oswald half-promised.

I said, "Good enough", dropping the conversation.

I lied my head back down on his lap, and he continued massaging my head.

.0

I had taken a walk to the pier, just to enjoy the great Gotham air. The birds were flying above, seagulls calling out to each other under the gray clouds. Beneath my feet, the ocean waves crashed against the deck as a storm was setting in. I wore blue jeans and a long-sleeve black shirt, and had sacrificed my comfort for the chill when I chose not to wear a jacket.

Breathing in the air, I could smell salt from the ocean, and…. I think it might have been a dead dog. I wasn't sure. I heard a car pull up, the engine dying. I slowly turned to see that my newfound company were two people, a male and female, both wearing jump suits. They appeared disgruntled as they both approached me.

"Sylvia Gordon," the woman spoke my name.

"In the flesh," I answered, holding my arms out dramatically. "Who the fuck are you?"

"You and Detective Gordon seem to have the same mannerism," muttered her male counterpart.

I frowned.

"I'm Detective Renee Montoya of Major Crimes; this is my partner." She said, gesturing to the male. "We need to speak to you."

"You're investigating the death of Oswald Cobblepot and trying to find proof in order to bring my brother into custody," I stated coldly.

"So, you know?" Montoya questioned. "How."

"Barbara," I answered smoothly.

Montoya mentally slapped herself.

"He was your boyfriend, wasn't he? Oswald Cobblepot."

"Yes," I answered.

"And you don't want the man responsible brought to justice?"

"Jim didn't kill him," I said calmly.

"How do you know that?" Montoya questioned.

"How do _you_?" I countered harshly.

Montoya frowned, saying, "Cobblepot worked for Fish Mooney. He came to us…."

"I know what he did," I interrupted her. "But you want me to help you find proof for something that never happened. That's a wild goose chase, and I'm not into geese."

Montoya stepped towards me with her partner and I looked at her dangerously.

"What do you know, Miss Gordon?"

"Absolutely nothing." I lied.

"You want justice for your boyfriend—we want the same thing," said Montoya.

"Is that all you want?" I questioned smoothly. "Maybe you want to get rid of Jim so Barbara will run to you for comfort, hmm?"

Montoya frowned, saying, "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Of course, you don't," I returned slyly, smirking at her. "But I'm sure Barbara does…. doesn't she?"

Montoya glared at me.

"You know Gordon is guilty, don't you?"

"I'm certain that I don't."

"You're covering for him."

I shrugged.

"Maybe I am," I replied sarcastically. "What _if_ I am? What proof do you have?"

"You're mixed into this somehow," Montoya's partner said unhappily. "Aren't you?"

Montoya stepped closer to me, just an inch from my face. She looked into my eyes, and I smiled back at her.

"All we are trying to do is help you, Sylvia. We want justice, just like you. Gordon killed your boyfriend and he's walking around like nothing is wrong. Doesn't that make you angry?" Montoya asked.

I smiled saying, "You really don't know anything, do you?"

The two of them seemed to realize they wouldn't be getting anything out of me and they got back in their car and drove off.

So much for getting some air.

During the next few days, Oswald was visiting with his mother; he packed a suitcase and was staying with her for a couple of weeks, which gave me plenty of alone time. And after what happened with Montoya, I tried keeping a close eye on any buzz from the news channel.

But nothing came on that concerned my brother or his friends.

On the news, I heard that the Goat had been caught; he'd tried nabbing a rich girl and was saved by Harvey Bullock and Jim, so I made my way to the police station to congratulate my brother and Harvey on a job well done. I spoke with the desk sergeant, who greeted me happily; he directed me to the captain's office.

"So, tell me again how you drove to the nice part of town and _shot_ the lady doctor?" Captain Essen said incredulously to Harvey Bullock.

I stopped at the doorway, knocking on the frame.

Harvey turned to me, and smiled widely.

"Sylvia!" Essen greeted, and she hugged me. "It's been so long! You look pretty as ever."

"Thanks." I blushed. "I just came to congratulate you, Harvey."

"Oh, so it's _Harvey_ now," he chuckled, grinning. "No longer 'Bullock'." He nudged Essen, saying, "I'm making my way up the ranks with her."

"Not really, Bullock."

Harvey shrugged and said, "Ah well—easy come, easy go."

Essen chuckled.

"So does the goat get taken to the slaughter or does he get set free in a few years?" I asked Harvey, who gave me a look. He was about to respond, but he was interrupted.

" _We're on the same side, don't you understand!_ "

"Jim?" I muttered, looking around and following Harvey and Essen out of the office. "We're fighting the same war, and damn it! I'm getting somewhere!"

We were down the stairs and standing before my handcuffed brother before I knew it.

"Getting into a six-by-eight pen in Blackgate." Montoya smarted off.

"What is this!" Essen ordered, getting into the middle of it.

"MCU's taking Detective James Gordon into custody," Montoya said firmly, looking between Essen, Harvey, and myself.

 _Ah_ _ **hell**_ no.

I stepped aside and pulled out my phone, watching the scene unfold before me.

"Sylvia?" Oswald's voice answered the phone.

"Oz, you need to get down here."

"Where?"

"GCPD station," I hissed. "MCU brought Jim here—they're arresting him."

"For what?"

"What do you think!" I snapped.

"Sylvia, I'm with my mother—"

"Oswald! They're arresting my brother, now if you can't get away from your mom for ten fucking minutes, they're going to put him away for a crime he didn't commit!" I snapped (luckily my voice was drowned out from MCU and Essen arguing).

Oswald paused.

"I'm on my way," Oswald said.

"Be quick." I pleaded.

"I will."

I hung up the phone.

 _Buy some time_.

I moved back into the crowd.

"He murdered Oswald Cobblepot and dumped him in the river—"

"That's a damn lie!" Harvey shouted.

"It is a lie!" Jim agreed.

Montoya gestured to me saying, "She knows he did it!"

"The fuck I do!" I snapped furiously. "When you talked to me, I told you nothing."

"You said you were covering for him," Montoya accused.

"You have no proof," I argued, stepping towards her. "And you have—"

"We have a witness—"

"—A homeless person!" I interrupted.

"He had binoculars!"

"I didn't shoot Oswald Cobblepot, I lied," said Jim, looking desperately at Harvey. "It was a lie! I didn't shoot him, Bullock!"

"I know you didn't shoot him," said Harvey. "I know."

"No, _really_ ," Jim emphasized.

In retrospect, if it weren't for the fact that my brother was arrested and I was pissed off, I thought this whole thing might have been funny.

"Harvey Bullock, you're under arrest," Montoya stated.

"FOR WHAT!" Harvey snapped.

"An accomplice to murder," said Montoya. "Our witness places you at the scene."

Essen wasn't having it.

"You think you can walk in here and take my people like that?" She demanded.

"We're not here to take down the GCPD—we just want these two." Montoya snapped.

"Well, they're GCPD so MCU has a problem!"

"Yeah you got a problem!" Harvey bellowed. "YOU GOT A REAL PROBLEM!"

The door opened.

All of us turned.

Oswald stood there, in the flesh….in a nice suit.

Harvey and Jim looked at each other.

"Hello! I am Oswald Cobblepot." Oswald said, smiling widely.

Harvey barely whispered, "You son-of-a-bitch."

"Harvey…."

"YOU SON OF A BITCH!"

They tried going at each other; luckily, for once, MCU was keeping them apart. I left them to go to Oswald, who looked at me expectantly. I hugged him.

"Thank you," I breathed, stepping back a little.

"You're welcome," Oswald returned genuinely.

MCU had to apologize to Capt. Essen and the other two, but Harvey was already charging after Jim in the locker room.

"I have to go." I told Oswald.

"Where?"

"I have to see Barbara—Falcone, Mooney...they'll be after her first."

"Sylvia—"

He grabbed my arm.

"They'll be after you too," Oswald reminded.

"I can take care of myself," I said quickly. "Barbara can't. Besides, Falcone still has to live up to his deal he made with you, the one in which I will not be touched. As long as that deal holds, I will be fine."

"That has long since passed," Oswald said darkly.

"I have no choice, Oz."

"Sylvia."

"You know I have to—she's my brother's family," I implored. "If I don't go, they'll find Barbara and use her against Jim, or worse."

Oswald considered the options.

He let go of my arm.

"Go. Be quick." Oswald said.

I nodded. We quickly kissed and then I headed off.


	13. Beaten But Not Broken

Chapter Thirteen: Beaten but not Broken

* * *

I knocked three times on Barbara's door.

"It's me—Sylvia! Open the door!"

The door handle jiggled, and Barbara appeared behind it. She looked curiously at me before I pushed her aside, and closed the door, locking it almost immediately.

"What's happening?" Barbara asked quickly.

"Get your shit," I ordered. "Pack what you can in the next five minutes, I'm getting you out of here."

"Sylvia—"

"Don't question me. Just do as I say!" I snapped.

Barbara looked at me reproachfully, but she did as she was told without another word. Her movements were quick, panicky.

"Where's the spare?"

"Spare what?" Barbara asked distractedly.

"Gun—where's the spare gun?"

"In the b-bedroom, Sylvia, why…."

I left the living room, and charged into the bedroom. Like Jim, he and I had the same thought processes. The spare was on his side of the bed, in a box, inside the night stand. I pulled it out, checked if it was loaded (it was), and then headed back into the living room where I saw Barbara pulling a suitcase and parked it beside the couch.

"What's happening?" She asked nervously. "Is Jim—"

"I can't tell you everything right now, Barbara…."

"Tell me now!" Barbara shouted fearfully.

"Long story, short? Oswald is alive, Jim isn't arrested, and everyone knows Jim didn't do what Falcone told him to do," I told her pointedly. "You're in trouble because of Jim, and I need to get you out of here before they come."

"You're in trouble too, then," said Barbara. "You're his sister."

"I'm his sister, but my situation is different."

"How?"

"Barbara, this really isn't the time."

" _How_ is your situation different?"

I frowned.

"You asked me if I knew Oswald Cobblepot—I lied and said I didn't."

"You lied to me?" Barbara exclaimed incredulously.

"Told you it's a family trait," I reminded coolly. "A secret, in a way. But it's more than that. He and I are together; he's my boyfriend. And he made a deal with Falcone that I would not be harmed when all of this stuff with him and Jim happened, but now that's over. _Falcone_ may not hurt me, but that's not to say that Mooney won't—and she is pissed off and we have to get you out **right** now."

"How the hell—" Barbara began angrily.

" _Just stop talking_ , will you?" I snapped. "You're angry—I get it." I glanced at the suitcase then at her. "Is that all you need?"

"Yes."

"Good." I returned shakily.

My heart was beating so fast, I thought it would jump out of my chest. The adrenaline made me feel like I could lift twenty cars, and I had to admit that I loved the rush! Barbara had a different reaction to the feeling as she fumbled uncertainly with her fingers and looked fearfully at me.

I glanced in the bullet chamber of the gun one more time, realizing there was only one shot.

"This won't do," I said, frowning. "Where are the rounds?"

"The what?"

"Rounds, Barbara. The bullet rounds."

"Oh! They're in the back room."

"Where?"  
"Past the bedroom, last room on the right."

"Good. I'll be right back—I'm getting those and then we'll head out, okay?" I said, patting her shoulder.

"Okay." Barbara whispered, nodding her head.

I headed down the room as fast as my feet would carry me. I spent about five more minutes looking for the damn things, finding a casing of twelve (what an odd number) and then placed it in the pocket of my jeans. Just as I headed down the hallway, there was another knock on the door.

"Barbara, don't answer—"

Butch Gilzean and three others had come barging into the door the moment Barbara had opened it. They slammed it shut. I pulled out the gun and aimed it at Butch, who appeared surprised, but then amused.

Butch and company took out their own guns.

"Barbara, get behind me." I ordered.

She did it without question, ducking slightly.

"Long time, no see," Butch chuckled, grinning widely at me. "I've not seen _you_ in a while."

"Well, you've seen me," I retorted. "Now get the fuck out."

"You know that's not how this works." Butch said slowly, approaching me with just as much caution.

"Sylvia…." Barbara whimpered.

"Don't move, stay behind me." I told her.

"You can't protect her," said Butch. "Boss ain't happy with Jim right now, so you know what's going to have to happen."

"You want to wait for him, that's fine," I said calmly. "That's _your_ funeral. You don't need Barbara."

"Oh, we do," Butch reassured.

The other three guys that had accompanied Butch moved forward towards the woman in question. I heard her whimper in fear behind me. I held out my arm in front of her.

"We can either do this the easy way or the hard way. You can set your gun down and we just have a nice talk," said Butch smoothly. "Or, you can try to fight all three of us, end up hurt or worse, and then we still get what we need."

I cocked my gun.

"Okay…. hard way, it is." Butch sighed.

"Fucking _try_ it." I snarled.

The three of them charged at me.

"RUN, BARBARA!"

She didn't get far. She took literally five steps before Butch caught her and threw her back, making her sit on the couch. The other two grabbed me. I managed to shoot one of them in the thigh, and he went down really quick before I was tackled to the ground. They smashed my face into the floor.

"Get off me, you fucking pricks," I spat—I struggled, tossing and turning.

"Keep calm, or we're going to break bones."

"I'll break **your** fucking bones," I threatened.

Butch leaned over to Barbara, saying cheekily, "She's a feisty one, ain't she?"

The one guy I had shot made a makeshift tourniquet over his thigh and then stood to his feet. He kicked me in the face. I grunted with the impact, tasting blood. I still struggled to get out of their grip. He kicked me in face again, and the other one started kicking my sides.

After a while, I stopped struggling. Mainly because it hurt to breathe.

I glanced up to see that Barbara was crying after seeing me get my ass handed it to me.

"You see," said Butch, imitating sadness, "We try to give you girls some slack. There are some that take the leeway, like you. But with Sylvia here…. some need a little rewiring. You know?" He looked at me, saying, "Oswald Cobblepot got really lucky when he got you, didn't he! Ha!"

I spit out blood.

"When I get up," I growled, "I am going to rip out your spine and shove it down your throat."

Butch laughed with the others.

"Why are you here?" Barbara squeaked, staring at the wall.

"Guess there's no harm in saying it," Butch drawled. "Your guy, Jim, upset some powerful people and now that person is really, really mad."

"He didn't kill Cobblepot." Barbara said, looking at me.

"THERE!" He slapped the couch loudly, making Barbara jump. "You're hip! You're really hip! Man, that Gordon is a lucky son-of-a-gun."

He took a seat beside her.

"Don't you fucking touch her," I threatened.

One of my attackers sighed tiredly before kicking me right in the ovaries. I grunted and decided that fetal position might be more comfortable.

"What are you, like 100 pounds? 110? I bet that's your real hair color too."

Barbara looked at me, eyes pleading.

What could I do though that I hadn't already tried?

"Have you ever been with a criminal?" Butch asked cheekily. "Some women find it a turn-on."

 _Click, click._

"Jim!" Barbara gasped.

Everyone turned and I looked up to see Jim Gordon coming out from the corner, gun aimed and raised.

"Hey!" Butch greeted happily. "We were just meeting your lovely lady!"

"You're trespassing, get out." Jim said in a low voice.

"Whoa," Butch chuckled. "Slow down, Hoss. You're misreading the situation here. I'm the Shot-Caller here."

"Fucking shoot him," I muttered.

Jim glanced at me briefly then at the man that aimed a gun at him.

"The situation is you've been told to bring me in alive, otherwise I would be dead right now," said Jim sternly. "But I will be happy to kill you right here and now."

"Please do," I groaned painfully.

I was kicked again, and I snickered painfully, "This is getting old, guys!"

"Don't be such a hard-ass," Butch said, stepping towards Jim. "Come on. You know the rules. You come with us, you take your lumps, nobody gets hurt."

"Tell your friend to drop his gun, or I will blow his brains out." Jim ordered.

"Oh my god, Jim!" Barbara squeaked.

"It's okay, it's under control," said Jim calmly.

I slowly began to get to my feet. I was kicked down again.

"Touch my sister again," Jim warned. "And I swear to god, I will shoot you down."

Butch ordered them to stand down.

"Fine, have it your way," said Butch coolly to Jim. "But now, after we kill you, we're gonna kill Blondie too. Nice and slow."

Triggered.

Jim shot the guy in the knee, shot my bruiser in the stomach, and knocked Butch out cold. Jim hurried over to me, looking me over.

I had three cracked ribs—I could feel it—and a cracked jaw, which could be healed likely by ice. My nose was bleeding, but not broken. I had a few cuts on my face, but otherwise, I was peachy. Jim held out his hand and I took it, grunting shortly when he held me up; I held my side.

"I'd ask if you're okay…" Jim said.

"But it'd be a stupid question," I said, laughing even though it hurt to laugh. "I got it."

"You'll need a doctor," Jim said quickly.

"Fuck that. Get _her_ out of here." I said, glancing at Barbara.

"You'll need to go with her."

"Fuck that too; I'm staying right here." I said harshly.

"They nearly beat you within an inch of your life," Jim snapped.

"Yeah, they did, but not because of you," I retorted. "Fish is still butthurt about Oswald betraying her and me going along with it. That and…. oh!"

Barbara rushed forward and hugged me.

Realization crossed his face.

"You came to protect her," Jim said quietly.

"I tried too, anyway." I muttered, grimacing as I took in a long breath.

"I'm so sorry," Barbara cried, taking my hand. "I didn't know it was them, I swear—I thought…."

"Just get out." I said, waving to the door. "Take her, Jim. Go!"

Jim nodded, and he took the suitcase and Barbara's hand, pulling both out the door with him. I leaned against the pillar. Maybe if I just rested, I could find the energy to follow them out. No such thing happened though; I stayed on the floor, holding my side for what felt like hours before I finally decided to stand the fuck up and get out the door.

I got in my car and drove to Gertrude's, knowing Oswald would be there with his mom, plus, it would dangerous going back to my place if Fish wanted to finish me off for good. I was close to fainting, my head felt like it had been run over by a train, and I could barely stand. By the time I'd climbed the stairs, I was leaning more than halfway over, knocking at the door.

Gertrude answered.

And I fainted, falling forward.


	14. Mother Cobblepot

Chapter Fourteen: Mother Cobblepot

Why did I smell acid and peppermint?

The smell of it hit me and I opened my eyes. My vision was blurry, but once everything came to focus, I realized I was lying on a very comfortable couch with Gertrude's hand in front of my nose. I looked down to see that she was holding some small vial which contained a kind of syrup; whatever it was, its purpose for waking me up had worked.

When my eyes opened, Gertrude let out a happy sigh, smiling down at me. She met eyes with someone that sat somewhere out of my peripheral vision; when I craned my head back to look up north, I saw Oswald, sitting in an armchair, fingers gripping the arms.

"She's awake," Gertrude gushed in her heavy accent, smiling widely.

Oswald knelt down at my head, his hands taking mine. I saw Gertrude glance between us, but she appeared content enough, which surprised me considering the last time I had any interaction with her, she'd implied that I was a whore.

Such a nice woman, really.

"I'll put on some tea; that'll help with the sick feelings," Gertrude offered as she referred to my nausea, getting up with a pep in her step.

"Thanks, Mom." Oswald returned, smiling at her gratefully.

He frowned though when he turned to me.

"How are you feeling?" He asked, eyes filled with worry, and he bit the inside of his cheek, contemplating my current disposition.

I started to sit up, but the pain in my ribs screamed in protest; I lied back down, wincing and holding my side. Doing so, I realized I wasn't wearing the same clothes. I had a rose-patterned robe on and my stomach was bandaged with a mix of tape and gauze.

"What happened?" I asked.

"You knocked on the door and then you fainted," Oswald answered calmly, holding my hands; his thumb stroked the back of one of them as he continued: "I was hoping you could tell me what happened before that."

I smiled in spite of myself.

"I tried to protect Barbara," I said, touching my head. I felt bandages there as well. "We were just about to leave; she answered the door, and Butch Gilzean and company came in. The rest is obvious, I think."

Oswald frowned.

"I told you to be careful," Oswald scolded in a low voice.

"And I was. But they're Fish Mooney's men, weren't they?" I reminded. "How careful could I be? And I wasn't going to let them have her without a fight. Barbara didn't know, of course—she thought it was Jim coming to save the day. And he did, towards the end. He got her out of town."

"Maybe you should do the same," Oswald lamented.

"What?"

"Get out of Gotham. You're his sister," Oswald reminded. "You're a target like her."

"I'm not going anywhere."

"What if I ordered you to leave?" Oswald questioned.

"How many times must I say it? You're my lover first, and my boss second. You can order me to leave, but I'll just come right back, so really….it's a lot of effort on your part for nothing." I said calmly. I tried to turn on my side, but my ribs were protesting again. I groaned, and reluctantly remained on my back.

"Stop moving."

"I fucking hate this, Oz." I whined. "I don't like not being able to move."

"It'll be fine," Oswald comforted. "Mother has remedies that none of the doctors know about; she'll have you right as rain."

"'Right as rain'?" I repeated, laughing quietly.

Oswald smiled, saying, "Her words, not mine."

"Here we are," Gertrude cooed, moving between Oswald and myself. She placed the platter holding three tea cups on the coffee table and sat on the edge of the couch. I flinched away from her on instinct when she moved to hold my shoulders.

"I'm going to move you up on the couch," Gertrude said in the heavy accent, "Okay?"

"I'm fine where I am right now."

"Oh, so stubborn," giggled Gertrude. She gestured for Oswald to help.

"No, no, no, no, no…." I began, but Gertrude didn't listen; she held my knees while Oswald took my shoulders and on the count of three, they both lifted me up and over. Oswald placed a pillow under my head, lifting it so I could drink my tea.

Gertrude handed me my cup.

"This is an old recipe," she said, smiling at me. "Its herbs will make you feel like you're dancing on air."

"What, it'll make me high?" I questioned incredulously.

"Something like that," giggled Gertrude. "But nothing like the drugs that are on the streets these days. You'll like it, trust me."

I glanced at Oswald pointedly before I took a sip.

It tasted like green tea, honestly. Nothing unusual.

"Oswald's been telling me all about you," Gertrude gushed, grinning at me widely. "I didn't realize he was dating someone with talent!"

"What did he tell you?" I asked suspiciously.

"All good things," Oswald chuckled, grinning at me.

"Like what for example?"

Gertrude said sweetly, "You know, I was like you at one point, Sylvia? I wanted to be a movie star, with the singing and the dancing. And I was good at it too! And to think that you _are_ a singer, my goodness—I can only imagine!"

I looked at Oswald questionably. He shrugged, but there was a mischievous look in his eye. He'd been feeding Gertrude some exaggerated tales—I had once had the ambition of being a singer or a dancer on stage, but that desire had died a long time ago. And now Gertrude thought I _was_ a singer.

Perhaps that had been the only way Oswald could make her like me. If he told her I was one of his employees who liked looting, mugging, and poisoning people and that I did all of these things with her son, Gertrude might have died of a heart attack.

"What do you sing?" Gertrude asked, leaning forward, interested.

"Um…." I began.

"Mostly lullabies," Oswald chimed in, smiling at his mom. "And arias."

"Ooh, those are always good to know," Gertrude giggled happily. "Music these days—ugh, they call that _singing_. You know, when I get on a stage, I would love to sing and dance, just twirl in circles and let my dress lift with the wind—such a freeing experience, you know? Have you ever sang an aria—those are beautiful, so elegant, they are!"

I looked at her incredulously. This woman was a classy gal, indeed.

"Singing at my son's restaurant must be a very honorable thing, yes?" Gertrude asked.

"Always an honor," I answered, smiling at her then at Oswald. "He doesn't even have to ask."

"A charmer that he is, I doubt he would need to," Gertrude gushed.

Oswald turned a deep shade of pink as he listened to us talk so highly about him. After a few more minutes dwelling on the singing that was apparently my occupation, Gertrude excused herself so she could make dinner. As she left, Oswald sat on the coffee table, looking at me.

"You told her I sing for a living?" I asked incredulously.

"She bought it, didn't she?" Oswald returned.

"Why did she have to buy it?" I replied. "You could have told her I was a waitress."

"Then I wouldn't be telling her the truth."

"You _didn't_ tell her the truth."

"Of course I did."

I blinked at him.

"How long was I out?" I exclaimed.

"You're not going to be a waitress," said Oswald. "You'll sing like I said."

"I'm not a singer."

"You are. You just don't think you are. But you _can_ sing," Oswald said smoothly. "I've heard you humming, and I hear you in the shower."

It was my turn to blush.

"She seems to like me enough," I muttered, glancing over the couch to see Gertrude moving about the kitchen.

"Of course she does," Oswald said, smirking at me. "I told her that you were the love of my life."

I stared at him.

"You did?"

"I did," said Oswald.

"And how did she react?"

Oswald held his hand out to the obvious.

"I'm surprised she didn't hit you over the head with a frying pan, that sounds more like her," I said quietly.

Oswald shrugged saying, "The woman is unpredictable."

I smiled at him as he leaned over and kissed my forehead. I suddenly felt very tired, and yawned because of it. He placed my hand over his, the other stroked my knuckles with the pad of his thumb. Sleep started over taking me, and I allowed it to do so.


	15. The Elephant in the Room

Chapter Fifteen: The Elephant in the Room

* * *

The next few days I spent lying on the couch were the worst, considering I couldn't move without feeling my ribs poking my heart. While Oswald was gone to work, it left Gertrude and me alone—which, honestly, wasn't so bad. We would talk mostly about Oswald and his childhood, how he didn't play with any of the children, how he preferred solitude to parties and night to day. We would sing classical lullabies, and we even did them in harmony.

After a week, I was able to move fairly well on my own. I had seemed to disappear from the planet while being in Gertrude's care and when I came back to my apartment, I was surprised to see Jim there. He'd answered my own door, and I stared at him for the longest time.

"I've been trying to call you," said Jim harshly. "Where the hell have you been?"

"Doesn't matter," I said, waving my hand at him. "Why are _you_ here? How did you get in?"

"I have a set of keys, remember?" Jim returned, taking said items from his jacket pocket and holding them out to me.

Seeing the arrangement of my furniture change and a few boxes of eaten through food around, I guessed he had been here for a few days.

"You've been hiding out here?" I asked, coming inside and closing the door.

"It's the second to last place they'd look," Jim replied, smiling at me sarcastically. "Thanks for telling me you were safe by the way."

"Don't give me that tone," I returned.

"How are you feeling otherwise?" Jim asked, looking me up and down. "You seem to have healed all right."

I shrugged, and sat on my own couch.

"It's the Gordon blood," I returned modestly. "Is Barbara out of town still?"

"Yeah," said Jim.

He walked to the kitchen where he had placed a shot gun on top of one of the counters and appeared to have been in the middle of cleaning it prior to my appearance. Alongside it was an opened bottle of whiskey. I gave it a glance; Jim saw me looking.

"I'm sober," Jim assured.

"I'd hope you weren't—answering the door without asking who it is and all." I told him, lying down. "Didn't Dad teach you any better?"

"I figured it was you."

"I've been gone for a week—how could you have known it was me?"

"Instinct?" Jim suggested.

"Well, you certainly have _that_ ," I muttered.

His footsteps came closer and I looked at him.

"What are you doing with that?" I questioned, gesturing to the shot gun.

"I'm going to arrest Don Falcone and the Mayor," said Jim with a strange smile.

"Alone?"

"Harvey's helping me."

"Harvey? Harvey Bullock?"

"Harvey Bullock," Jim answered factually.

"I thought he wanted to kill you."

"He changed his mind."

"That sounds unreal."

"Well, believe it, because it's true." Jim said dully, cocking his head to the side. "We're going to arrest the Mayor and Falcone **tomorrow**."

"You don't take a break, do you, big brother? You're going to be chopped up in a million uncountable pieces before you finally take a moment." I said tiredly. "But if anything, Dad would be proud."

Jim sat on the couch with me.

"You're worried about me when you should be worried about yourself," he said calmly.

"And why should I be worried?"

"You have the Gordon name for one," he said, a hint of pride there. "And you're open with your relationship with Cobblepot."

"That doesn't change things, really," I told him. "Falcone won't hurt me."

"Because of the deal Oswald made, right?" Jim said sarcastically. "Who beat you within an inch of your life?"

"Mooney's men," I said.

"Mooney belongs to Falcone."

"May be, but she clearly doesn't care. And she's not afraid of Falcone. I don't care to know why. Falcone won't hurt me. He wants _you_ , Jim, and only you.

Jim argued, "He'll use you to get to me."

"No, he won't. If anything, he'll go after Barbara. He knows I can handle myself—look how well I did with Mooney's goons."

"You're only alive because I came to the rescue."

I gave him a look saying, "I'm _alive_ because I got the hell out of there and went some where I knew was safe. He has a deal with Oswald, and Falcone won't break it."

Jim frowned at me.

"You have a lot of respect for that criminal, don't you?" He said, clearly disgusted.

I stood to my feet and walked into the kitchen. Jim followed me right after. While he and Harvey prepared for what might seem to be an all-out war on Falcone, I was going to make dinner. Jim leaned against the refrigerator, shotgun in hand.

"You don't see it, James," I noted calmly. "You don't see it because you choose not to see it. But whether you want to or not, you will have to realize that Carmine Falcone is not the enemy in Gotham—it's the people, the shitty people, that make Gotham stink. And he's trying to contain it."

"Didn't you say you're one of the shitty people?" Jim recalled.

"I did," I returned. "But I'm not talking about myself. There are people in Gotham who are just sick. Like the Goat dick, or the Balloonman, or this asshole that was putting Viper on the street—those are the shitty people. Compared to them, I'm completely innocent."

"I wouldn't say 'completely'." Jim noted curtly. "And 'innocent' might be too good of a word for you."

I put a pan on the stove, and turned to look at him.

"You sound upset that I admire a professional like Falcone, but…." I approached him. "Let's talk about the real elephant in the room."

"Which is what?" Jim challenged.

"With everything that's happened to you in Gotham, you _hate_ the fact that I am still with Oswald," I pointed out. "Don't you?"

Jim curled his lips resentfully.

"He put your life in danger," Jim argued.

"No, you did!" I rounded, pointing at him. "While I am thrilled—believe it or not—that you didn't shoot him dead and throw his body in the river, it is you who put my life in danger when you chose not to shoot him."

"He came back to Gotham—he put our _lives_ in danger!" Jim growled.

"He came back because of me!"

"And look how well it's turned out for us—for you!" Jim shouted, placing the shotgun harshly on the counter. "You were nearly beat to death—"

"That was not him—that was Fish—"

"Because he _snitched_ on her to the MCU!" Jim finished furiously. "And you can stand there and pretend he's a good guy but—"

"He **is** a good guy!" I said, stomping my heel on the tile.

"He has killed people!" Jim growled, stepping towards me.

" _SO, HAVE I!_ "

Jim stared at me. His flame nearly died out as he looked at me with new eyes.

Barely a whisper, he asked, "You did?"

I nodded. He leaned against the counter, surprised.

"The first one was on self-defense," I confessed. "He tried to rape me."

Jim looked at me reproachfully.

"Why didn't you tell me about this?" Jim asked incredulously.

"Because it wouldn't have mattered," I said. "He didn't get far—I shot him in the face."

Jim's eyes widened.

"I could tell you about the others but…." I waved my hand to the badge that he wore on his belt, "Then you would have to arrest me."

"I wouldn't…."

"You wouldn't?" I said knowingly. "You're a cop first, Jim. You're a cop first and a brother second. That's who you are and you'll always be that."

Jim looked hurt.

"You killed people in self-defense. That's not a crime."

"It is if it wasn't self-defense," I told him softly.

"What do you mean?"

I shrugged saying, "I can't tell you."

"Why not?"

"I just said why."

Jim took his badge and placed it on the counter beside the shotgun, making a point.

"I'm not a cop right now," Jim said quietly. "Right now, I am your brother."

"That doesn't matter," I told him. "You'll say you won't tell anyone, that you won't arrest me, but you will hear what I have to say and immediately spring for the handcuffs. It's just like when we were kids—I told you I hit a kid, you told Dad. I took a package of M&Ms from the store for you and me without paying for them, you told Dad. And when we were five, it was _me_ who took the blame when you shoved Barney Truffles off the slide, and I was suspended for two weeks in the sixth grade. And when we ditched math class and got caught by Ms. Bunapart, you told Dad it was all _my_ idea."

Jim held out his hands in defense saying quietly, "We were kids."

"Doesn't matter," I sighed, smiling at Jim. "The only difference between then and now is that 'Dad' is the rest of your cop buddies. I can't tell you anything I do with Oswald, Jim, because you won't like it at all. And I don't expect you to."

"So, you'll lie to me," Jim assumed darkly. "You'll sink to Cobblepot's level? You'll put other people's lives in danger for a man that—"

"Off the record, Jimmy," I interrupted him. "I already have."

"Why are you telling me this now?" Jim seethed.

"Seeing as how you and Bullock are going to go after Falcone and the Mayor, I figured you'd be dead before sunset so I thought I'd come clean." I said truthfully, turning back to my cooking. I was making grilled cheese. "But in any case, you _do_ live, I'm not telling you anything else."

"You're awfully calm…. knowing that I might die tomorrow."

"Would it change your plans if I was scared?" I offered, glancing over my shoulder. "Would it make you rethink your decision if I begged you not to do it?"

"No."

I smiled knowingly, saying, "And that's why I'm calm."

He was silent for the longest time. I heard him behind me, sighing and breathing, but otherwise, he was quiet. When I made two grilled cheese sandwiches and I handed him a plate, he took it but set it on the counter, forgotten already.

"Are you working for him?" Jim asked.

"Am I working for whom?"

" _Falcone_ ," Jim answered, suddenly irritated.

"No," I said, turning off the stove and looking at him. "I'm not working for Carmine Falcone. And to save you the trouble of asking the next question—No…. I'm not working for Maroni."

"You're just working with Cobblepot, then," said Jim coldly.

"Working with, working for—all of it kind of blurs together after a while," I said carelessly.

"He **works** for Maroni," Jim growled.

"And that's fine—if Oswald worked for Falcone, I'd be doing the same damn thing. I don't work for Falcone, Maroni, or anyone else." I declared calmly. "I told you from the beginning that my loyalty is to you and Oswald. Anyone else is just background noise."

Jim cleared his throat, apparently trying to get a handle of things.

"If Maroni tells Cobblepot to kill a guy and Cobblepot asks you to kill the guy for him, would you do it?"  
I smiled in response.

"Sylvia!"

"What?" I exclaimed, raising my hands up. "I _told_ you what I have been doing." I took a bite of my grilled cheese sandwich, adding, "It's not _my_ fault you don't like what you're hearing."

"Dad would be disappointed," Jim sighed, shaking his head.

"Well, that's nothing new—Dad was already disappointed in me long before any of this happened. I heard that more than 'I love you'." As an afterthought I added, "You're starting to look a lot like him the older you get—all you need is a beard."

I finished my grilled cheese.

"How did you get like this?" Jim asked quietly, looking me over.

"I was already like this," I pointed to myself. "I've been doing this kind of thing since I was fifteen—the killing only started a few weeks ago."

"Don't tell me that," Jim said, placing a hand over his face.

"You'll have to make up your mind, Jimmy. You either want me to tell you this stuff or you don't." I said with an exasperated sigh. "You're giving me whiplash over here."

"You're a lost cause, aren't you?" Jim questioned, rubbing his temple.

"Hey, now you _sound_ like Dad." I giggled, grinning at him maliciously. "You want the same kind of freedom, Jimmy. You just won't allow yourself to give into it. You want to be this awesome cop who puts away the bad guys and does everything perfectly but that's not ever going to happen because it's not realistic. Especially in Gotham. Putting away Falcone and the Mayor isn't going to change things, and you thinking it will…It really makes me feel sorry for you."

I placed my plate in the sink.

"Eat up," I said, gesturing to the sandwich. "You can't go arresting powerful guys with an empty stomach."

Jim took my wrist before I could leave the kitchen.

I looked at him curiously.

"I'm sorry for what I said," Jim apologized. "You're not a lost cause."

"Oh, I am," I reassured. I kissed his cheek. "You just don't want to accept it."

"As long as you're dating that Cobblepot, you always will be," Jim said softly.

I shrugged saying, "I would be this way regardless if I was with him. The only difference is that he accepts me for what I am. And what I am, Jimmy, is someone who _loves_ crime."

I kissed him on the cheek again.

"You don't see it now, but you and I are the same and we have the same darkness inside—the only difference between us is that I embrace it."

He let go of my arm and I walked away to the bedroom for a nap.


	16. Criminal By Choice

Chapter Sixteen: Criminal By Choice

Early the next morning, Jim was up and getting ready. He hadn't changed his mind about going after Falcone and the Mayor. I made coffee, and watched him finish dressing, putting on his jacket. He looked at me as he straightened up, expecting me to say something to stop him. Instead, I knelt down under the kitchen, grabbed my spare and I placed it on the table.

He looked at it oddly. I poured myself a cup of coffee, holding the warm mug between my hands. It steadied my trembling.

"Take it."

"Sylvia…."

"'Take it', I said.'"

Jim strolled into the kitchen and carefully picked up the gun. It was my spare, but this spare was different than other back-up homely security. In its chamber were sharpened bullet rounds—cop killers, they were called, as they could pierce through any vest.

"Why do you have these?" Jim questioned as he took out the rounds and looked them over.

"It's like you said, Jimmy. Gotham is sick. Unfortunately, so are some of the cops you work with. In Gotham, a girl needs to protect herself from the creeps that commit crime and the people who claim to protect us from them."

I drank the mug of its entirety, half-wishing it had been vodka but caffeine was a better choice than alcohol at the moment.

"I can make it right," Jim said quietly, more to himself than me. "Gotham can be made safe again."

"If there were more people like you in it, but there aren't." I remarked.

"There are people like you…." Jim began.

I smiled and placed my empty mug on the counter.

"People like me don't fight bad guys," I said gently. "We've been over this."

"So, we have, but…." Jim placed the gun on the table, and placed his hands on my arms gently. "The passion you have, Sylvia—some people call it a 'nuisance', maybe—"

"—You mean Dad—"

"Yes, I mean Dad," Jim hushed. "You don't have to keep going down this path, Vee."

I smiled at him.

"You've not called me 'Vee' since we were kids."

Jim looked taken aback, but then he reassured himself.

"You're not a lost cause," said Jim, holding my hand. "You're blinded by love. Misguided."

"Love has only brought out the best in me," I said quietly.

"By killing people?"

I shrugged saying, "It's mainly all circumstance, Jimmy. And you want to talk about my relationship with Oswald, but I can save you the effort. Nothing you say will make me leave him."

Jim cursed, withdrawing from me completely.

"I don't know why you don't approve, honestly, now that I think about it," I said curiously, crossing my arms. "He doesn't hit me, and he's never said a single unkind thing. He only wants what's best for me..."

"Then he should have never come back to Gotham."

"That's going to be your number one go-to in this argument, isn't it?"

Jim frowned, saying, "You're not this person, Sylvia. You're a good person…."

"I know what you're doing—it won't work."

Jim blinked.

I smiled ironically: "I _know_ I am a good person. But I'm this as well" (I gestured to myself) "People aren't all good and all bad, Jimmy. Those are unrealistic expectations. You keep telling me that I'm not supposed to be with Oswald and that he's not good enough for me; I keep telling you that I love him and he loves me. The entire conversation is going around in a loop, and I am sick of it."

He glared.

"What you can expect from me," I said softly, "is that I will help you in any case you need it. Whatever Oswald tells me, I can tell you—with limitations. I love you, big brother, but I won't sabotage his ambitions for your own and vice versa." I set the standards firmly. "What you must _accept…_." I touched his shoulder, "is that one day, Oswald Cobblepot and I will marry. And when that happens, he'll be your brother-in-law. Now, I love you, Jimmy. I truly and honestly do and there's not a single damn thing I would not do for you, with the exception of one thing."

I patted his shoulder.

"I will never stop loving Oswald, and I will never leave him." I said sweetly.

 _Knock, knock_.

Jim and I looked at each other, instantly on high alert.

"Stay here." Jim ordered.

"The hell I will; it's my fucking apartment." I said as I walked after him.

Jim carefully opened the door with the two of us aiming our guns. When I saw Harvey Bullock standing there with a box of doughnuts, I lowered my weapon immediately, Jim following suit. He smiled happily.

"You look cheerful," I noted.

"You look beautiful," said Harvey, eyeing my sundress. "Is that new?"

"Just come in," I scoffed, shaking my head.

Jim smiled at Harvey; they embraced like brothers, and Harvey kicked the door closed. He followed us back into the kitchen, setting down the doughnuts.

"This doesn't help the stereotype at all," I said, pointing to the box.

"Shut up and have a doughnut," said Harvey.

"No thanks."

"Well, I am," said Harvey carelessly. "Plate?"

I handed one to him.

"Napkins?"

"What do I look like, your secretary?" I questioned, putting my hands on my hips.

Jim answered for me: "Behind you."

Harvey took a handful of paper towels and placed them on the table. He started eating a doughnut and with much reconsideration, Jim took one as well. I looked at the two of them.

"Two cops versus the Godfather," I said ironically. "Isn't this a great picture?"

"You can join us, you know," said Harvey, winking at Jim. "The more, the merrier."

"Again—No thanks," I politely declined. "So how did Jim persuade you into this, huh?"

"Well," Harvey cleared his throat. "Thanks to your great brother here, I am a dead man. So, I figured I go out with a bang."

"That, you will," I stated, leaning against the counter. "Many 'bangs'."

Harvey looked at Jim: "She's really supportive, isn't she? You'd think she be more willing to help after Zsasz came looking for you."

"WHAT?"

Harvey startled, and Jim winced.

I glared at Jim: "When did Victor come after you?"

Jim opened his mouth to likely give me a story about how it didn't happen that way but Harvey beat him to it.

"Tore up the GCPD station looking for him—all these cops just left, didn't they, partner? They had a chance to save one of our own and they just walked out on him, like a blind date losing interest." Harvey told me, his voice dripping with irritation. "If I was there…."

" _Shut up_ ," I snapped. I looked at Jim. "Is this true?"

"Sylvia..."

"Your entire frat house just **left**?" I seethed. "Left you alone with Victor Zsasz—how the fuck are you even still alive?"

"MCU helped me out," Jim admitted.

"That's kind of funny," I stated curtly. "You're worried about _me_ being the bad guy when, really, it's your little cop buddies that are causing you the most problems."

"Well, Zsasz is a rough character—" Harvey started.

I slammed my hand on the table.

Harvey silenced immediately.

Jim turned to me curiously, and a little intimidated.

I approached the both of them.

"If you want me to come, Jim…. I will."

"No." Jim said, shaking his head. "It's not your place—this is police business."

"Are you sure," interjected Harvey. "She seems to know what she's talking about—"

"I'm not having my little sister help me take down Falcone and the Mayor. It's too dangerous…."

"How do you expect me to be this good person, Jim, if you won't let me take the opportunity when it presents itself?" I questioned fiercely. "You're going after one of the most powerful people in Gotham and you won't accept the help because I just so happen to be your blood?"

Harvey commented on the sideline: "She has a point, you know."

"Shut up!" Jim snapped.

"Boy," sighed Harvey, shaking his head. "You two are in a feisty mood today."

Jim looked at me.

I stopped him before he could say something else.

"You don't care about me being this good person, Jim," I said quietly. "You only care about the appearances, don't you? You _say_ you want me to walk a different path, but what you **really** want is for me to stop dating Oswald, don't you? You don't care if I have mugged people—"

"—Politician deserved it—" Harvey muttered.

"—Or that I have robbed banks—" I continued.

"—Jackasses take more from my check than the skells do…." Harvey sidelined.

"—Or that I have killed people, even—"

Harvey's eyes widened: "Say _what_ now?"

"Seriously!" Jim growled, glaring at him. "Shut up! _Please_?"

Harvey held up his hands in surrender.

Jim looked at me.

"Your sister dating one of Maroni's underlings just _tears_ you apart, doesn't it?" I breathed, stepping closer to him. "You just can't _stand_ it. And you'd rather make this about morals and ethics before you admit it." I poked him in the chest. "Isn't that right?"

Harvey chuckled darkly, "She's got you figured out, partner—okay, okay, I'll go in the other room."

Jim lowered his gun and looked at me again.

"Fine," said Jim, resigned. "You're _right._ I'd rather have you dating someone who isn't him. But it's only because I love you."

"No, it's not." I called him on it. "Some of it might be, but that's not the whole reason. You don't like everyone knowing that I'm a criminal, someone who is tearing apart everything you're trying to fix."

"You're wrong."

"Am I?" I questioned, knowing I wasn't. "Because I'm getting something different from you. If you could do it over again, I am certain—I'd bet my life on it—that you'd go back and _really_ kill Oswald. That'd eliminate a great deal of problems for you, would it not?"

"It would for me," Harvey interjected.

"You want me to be this good girl," I said softly, "But not because you're looking out for my best interest. You don't want my criminal tastes _tarnishing_ your good boy reputation. You'd rather me break up with Oswald, and be miserable than ever have to admit to anyone that your little sister is a criminal by _choice_ and not by circumstance."

Jim frowned at me.

"I can tell by your face that I am right." I whispered.

Jim was seething, breathing heavy. And if it looks could kill, I would be dead. Jim held out his hand; I placed my gun in his palm. He placed the gun in the back of his pants, as a last resort. He looked at Harvey, who was watching us warily.

"Let's go, Harvey." Jim growled. "I have few things to get at the apartment."

That was just an excuse to get away from me.

He went out the door, followed shortly by Harvey, who gave me a little respectful nod before leaving my humble abode.


	17. Pure Love

Chapter Seventeen: Pure Love

* * *

The water was warm, a welcoming friend to temporarily assuage any troubles I had. I allowed myself to sink a little deeper, bending my legs so I could put my whole head under. For a moment, I heard only the water sloshing around in my ear drums, my lungs trying but failing to expand—I could let go, allow the bath water to suffocate me, but what good would that do anyone, particularly for myself?

I breathed the air, wiping the water from my eyes.

"If you're trying to drown yourself, you're failing miserably at it."

I startled, looking quickly to my right to see Oswald standing in the bathroom. He was dressed in his usual suit, looking handsome as ever. The only change to his appearance were the very apparent scratches on his face as though someone had hit him. I sat up, looking at him curiously.

"What happened to _you_?" I asked.

He put the top down on the toilet and sat on it, hands clasped together, ignoring my question.

"Forgive me," Oswald said gently. "I know we haven't really seen each other much in the past week or so, and that's entirely my fault."

I shrugged saying, "Well, I've been busy with my brother's shenanigans….so let's share the blame, yeah?"

He smiled gratefully.

"So, who did that to you?" I asked, moving to the edge of the bathtub to take a closer look.

"Mooney," Oswald answered, his voice seething.

"I'm not surprised. When did it happen?"

"Couple of days ago," He replied, shaking his head as though it didn't matter.

But it mattered to me.

"What prompted that?"

"If you're not a friend of hers, don't call her 'Fish'. She came to the restaurant and tried asking Maroni to hand me over. He didn't."

 _"So, she hit you."_

Oswald's smile faltered.

"Sylvia..." He said slowly as I began to get out of the tub. "I _know_ that tone. And I _know_ that look—you're not going anywhere near Mooney."

I dried off, and wrapped myself in my robe.

"She hits you and you don't want me to pay it forward?" I returned incredulously.

Oswald stood and placed his hand on my shoulders, saying calmly, "This is a delicate situation we are in, Sylvia. If you go after every single person that's against us, you'll end up dead…. or worse."

"I'm not going to stand by and let that woman—"

"You're angry, I understand. She sent her idiots to Miss Kean's apartment, they beat you to an inch of your life—I completely understand why you'd want to play 'eye for an eye'…."

"I don't care about that!" I rounded coldly. "I don't care that I had my ass handed to me—I care about the fact that she's causing you bodily harm and _I'm_ not there to give her a piece of my mind. I will not sit by and just let her do what she wants. God knows she's done enough to the both of us between her breaking your kneecap and carving a _fucking fish_ into my neck!"

I made to move past him, but Oswald held me firmly. When I continued to struggle, he pushed me against the bathroom door, closing it in the process. I looked up at him, eyes wide. I expected him to yell at me, to tell me that I was being foolish and stupid. At least, that's what Jim would have said.

Instead, he shoved his mouth against mine.

It had been several days since we had a conversation between my going back and forth with Jim and Oswald tending to his homely mother. I'd missed him greatly, his soft lips pressed hard against mine, how he looked at me, like any day I might fly up the chimney.

His hands that pinned me against the door rubbed down my shoulders, taking the fabric with them so my robe fell down my back and puddled around my feet. Leaving me naked and exposed. Oswald licked my lower lip, requesting entry.

"I've missed you," He said breathlessly in between kisses.

"I've missed you too."

He held my hips, his thumbs caressing the bone. The texture of his suit rubbing against the exposed flesh made my skin crawl in the most pleasurable way. He dipped his head into the crook of my neck, soft lips kissing, setting my skin ablaze. Then he kissed my throat with his tongue.

I unbuttoned his jacket, and he shrugged it off, carelessly letting it fall onto the bathroom tile. While he took off his vest and shirt, I knelt down and unbuckled his belt, unzipping his pants.

It felt like it'd been forever since we made love. And the thought of him inside of me made me wet.

I pulled down his pants and boxers; he stepped out and without hesitating, he pushed me onto the bathroom floor, moving between my legs.

I gasped.

"What's wrong?" Oswald asked quickly.

"The floor is cold!" I giggled, clicking my knuckles against the tile indicatively.

Oswald chuckled as he kissed me; the vibration of his laugh was felt deep in my chest. His cock pressed against the inside of my thigh, hard and ready. Instead of taking me right there, Oswald grazed the heat of my flesh with two fingers, testing the waters, so to speak. They dipped inside; my back arched and I let out a longing sigh.

"You would kill anyone if I asked, wouldn't you?" He whispered against my neck, licking my earlobe; he breathed into my ear, and my body shuddered in response.

"Yes." I moaned.

His fingers curled inside of me, finding the spot I needed him most; my hips lifted in reciprocation; my fingernails digging into my palms.

"I'd give my life," I said quietly, but breathlessly, "If it meant saving yours."

"That's a lot to sacrifice for something so little of worth," Oswald whispered.

"Not to me."

Oswald looked at me, eyes wide. An array of emotions flickered over his face before settling on a single emotion: pure love. Then all the emotions seemed to overtake him. He withdrew his fingers, coated his cock with my wetness, and touched the tip of him just along the slit. I bit my bottom lip as he teased, pushing between the swollen doors but never inside. Just as I loved being teased, it turned him on just hearing my sweet and desperate whines.

His breath was shallow, his body shaking with anticipation. He lowered himself down on me, his chest against my breasts, his hips cradling into mine. I wrapped my arms around his back; my legs around his waist, interlocked at my ankles.

"I love you, Sylvia." He said softly.

"I love you too." I returned, smiling up at him.

He kissed me, his tongue moving into my mouth and finding my own. Simultaneously, he pressed his cock against my center and slowly pushed inside. I felt every vein, every part of him move through my sensitive sex. My pussy clenched involuntarily, happily to receive. With the contrast of my body heat and the iciness of the tile, it was like several sensations going off all at the same time.

"So tight…." Oswald grunted. "My god…."

He gyrated his hips against mine, taking his time. His slow exits were followed by the slower entry, savoring every moan he extracted, every whimper he heard. As he steadily quickened the pace, I met his thrusts with the rise of my hips.

"This floor is really cold," Oswald noted.

"Told you," I panted, letting out a small chuckle before he silenced me with another kiss.

With the force of his thrusts, my back started scooting across the tile, and it wasn't the most comfortable of sensations. Tired of having to pull me back to him, Oswald growled in frustration.

"Get up," Oswald ordered.

I did so. He took my wrist and pulled me with him to the bedroom. The moment I stepped over the threshold, he was kissing me, and groping every part of my body that he could. I sat on the edge of the bed, smirking at him.

"Move to the middle of the bed." Oswald commanded. "And get on your hands and knees."

I eagerly did as I was told, moving to the middle of the bed, and balanced on all fours.

"So bossy," I mused, sitting on my knees.

Oswald stepped forward, grabbing my hair. He yanked my locks so my head was pulled back, and I was forced to look at him. He shoved his mouth onto mine, forcing entry.

"You _like_ being told what to do, remember?" Oswald said hoarsely.

"All too well," I breathed, licking my lips. "It's really turning me on."

"I'm glad you like it," Oswald said, grinning widely. "Because I like it too."

Oswald lifted himself on the bed, and crawled behind me. His hands grabbed my butt, fingers spread. I wiggled it in response. He traced my lines, the pads of his fingers smoothing up my spine and pressing down so the upper half of my body bent forward, leaving my lower half up in the air.

"I am going to fuck you from behind," Oswald said calmly (hearing him curse made me only that much more willing), "You will stay on your hands and knees. You will not move from this position unless I tell you otherwise. Do you understand me, Pet?"

I nodded eagerly.

"Say it."

"I understand."

Oswald kissed my lower back in approval. I felt his cock against my pussy, his hands holding my hips, fingers pressing down.

"Is Sylvia ready?" He taunted.

"Yes."

"I am sure you are, but why should I take your word for it?"

He reached around my front, and slid a finger between my walls. My pussy coated the digit when he pulled it out and I heard him sigh with satisfaction at just how wet I was between my legs. When his cock moved inside of me, a sudden shock of sweet electric energy coursed through my body and up to my brain. From the angle, he could reach my G-spot easily, and lord knows he hit it several times. With only a few thrusts, I was a moaning, wanton mess. My fingers clenched the bed sheets, and my toes curled behind him.

He took a handful of my hair and pulled so hard that my body straightened, forcing me to stand on my knees. A derisive, shaky quiet laugh was my only response. God, how I loved it! My pussy tightened around him as his hips gyrated against mine, my breasts bouncing.

Oswald held my neck in one hand, his thumb and index finger pressing on the carotid artery, stopping the blood from going to my head, but the pressure—oh my fucking _god_ , did it make things ten times more intense.

"You're so easy to please, aren't you, Sylvia? Hmm?" He whispered into my ear (I could barely hear him over my own moaning) "So responsive….so _eager_."

He bit my earlobe; I keened excitedly in response.

"Harder…." I whimpered.

"Ask me nicely," Oswald said sternly.

" _Please_ fuck me harder." I begged.

He rubbed my clit, the swollen bundle of nerves overstimulated—I let out a needy moan, so desperate I was to reach my orgasm, so close I was, teetering between the pinnacle of release and the threat of denial. He pushed my head down into the mattress, grabbed my hips and fucked me to my heart's content. When I hit my orgasm, my body shook and convulsed; he pressed his body on top of mine, pinning down my wrists, but still thrusting from behind, enjoying my body's pleasurable seizure.

My voice vocalized on its own accord. As he penetrated deeper and harder, riding out my strongest orgasm yet, his hands moved from my wrists to my own, interlacing his fingers into mine. He made one last thrust that threw me into another orgasm before he caught his own fire, moaning along with me.

 _Goddamn it….so fucking good…._

He slowly rolled off me, kissing the nape of my neck and shoulders as he carefully did so. I looked at him, seeing the aftermath of my handiwork—all of him was sweaty, and his hair fell down his face.

"I can't feel my toes," I said secretively.

"That's uncanny," Oswald said, looking up at the ceiling, his chest rising and falling. "I can't feel mine either."

"Weird—something must be wrong with you."

He glanced at me, saw that I was giggling, and he broke out into a laugh.


	18. An Opportunity

Chapter Eighteen: An Opportunity

I stood on the sidewalk, opposite of _Joe Green's_. I'd walked past this grocery store every day for the past ten weeks, and not just because of the exterior design. This store was run by a large stocky fellow with a black, caterpillar mustache. He wore an apron over his grocer clothes, and each time he greeted his customers, he was always stern. Business was business, in his eyes, and if the customers didn't like the brusque mannerism, then so be it—that was the motto he seemed to live by.

What he sold were a variety of floral settings ranging from potted plants to a grape vineyard which one could have planted in their garden by him or accomplished on one's own time. I didn't much care for plants. Despite their uses for sending out oxygen into the air, I frequently felt more suffocated by them than anything.

I leaned against the building behind me, one belonging to a newspaper gazette that was down on its luck. It would be closed soon if it didn't get the right story. Talk of trivial times—no one wanted to read the paper anymore, it was always full of bad news (stocks were plummeting and the mob families were making profits through the roof) and who really ever read newspapers?

Robbing a store in front of the newspaper gazette would certainly get them the first look on the story—I could bet that easily. Aside from admiring the floral view of _Joe Green's,_ I was casing the place, looking at its security and admiring its nicely look-through windows. There wasn't much to be seen where security was concerned, but I always suspected that a large man like Joe wouldn't mind putting me through the window if I tried to rob the man, especially if I walked through the front door.

I needed a different way inside.

I felt someone drawing nearer to me despite the many pedestrians walking by. The eyes on me were leering; I turned around to see who was watching. But no one seemed preoccupied with my presence. No one looked suspicious enough for me to question. Still though….

I glanced down the alley beside the building, and a tall man wearing black and a vest with two seated holstered guns came out of the shadows. His head was bald, and he had no eyebrows. The look in his eye was leery, and I knew automatically that this man was responsible for the sick feeling churning in my gut.

"You've been watching me," I said with forced calm.

He sighed, standing next to me, admiring _Joe Green's_ with crossed arms.

"I have." He said pointedly. He smiled.

That was a little more unsettling than his blank expression.

"Why are you standing out here, in the open?"

"Where else would I be?" I questioned in return.

"Hiding, perhaps?"  
"Who would I be hiding from?"

 _This man knew nothing about me._

"Me maybe?"

I scoffed.

Then he straightened, holding his vest with superiority.

"My name is Victor Zsasz..."

My hand shot to the pocket of my jacket and I quickly aimed my gun at him.

Victor laughed in surprise, holding up his hands in what might have seemed like surrender to anyone else but I suspected he had been ready for the reaction. He seemed too calm anyway.

"Whoa now," Victor drawled. "Let's not do anything you might regret later, 'kay?"

"Regret killing _you_ , I highly doubt it." I hissed. "You tried to kill my brother."

Victor lowered his hands, shrugging and saying apathetically, "It's nothing personal."

"Well, I take it personally."

"Sorry to hear about that," Victor returned, faking sadness. "I didn't come here to kill you so you can put _that_ away."

Sensing the honesty, I placed my gun back in my jacket.

"Why are you here?" I questioned.

"I come as a messenger," Victor said coolly.

"A message from Falcone?"

Victor nodded.

He said smoothly, "He wants to warn you not to intervene. This feud does not have to involve you, Miss Gordon. You're not the one he wants. In fact, he gave me direct orders not for you to be harmed in any way shape or form."

"You sound disappointed," I cared to note. "The same order came down once before but that didn't stop Mooney's men from beating the shit out of me."

"If I am not mistaken, you went out of your way to keep them from Barbara Kean," said Victor. "If you had stepped aside, you would not have been touched."

I sighed, rolling my eyes.

"Fine then. I won't intervene. You can put it on the record that I am not happy. Lucky for you, I don't shoot the messenger."

Victor cracked a grin.

"You know you and Jim act a lot alike?" Victor asked, chuckling when I pushed him aside.

"You're not the first person that's told me that," I remarked. "Now go away. I'm working."

Victor followed my gaze to the floral store. He leaned into me and I flinched but he grabbed my shoulder, pulling me back to him as he breathed into my ear, "He never locks the back door."

He withdrew, winking at me, then he walked off.

I stared after him.

In that moment, I could say that I liked Victor okay, respected him. He was a professional after all.

I started towards the back of the store, keeping tabs on Joe who was tending to his plants on the inside. I jiggled the door handle, and smiled.

It was unlocked.

 _Thank you, Zsasz, you reprehensible prick._

I tiptoed through the doorway, minding the low-hanging threshold above. It was dark as fuck inside the building, pitch black. The odor of wet fertilizer and rotting foliage made me sick. I held my hands out to guide my feet through the darkness, seeing a light at the end—the light surrounding a door that no doubt would lead me right behind the counter. The concrete beneath my feet suddenly felt light, my head dizzy with the sudden rush of adrenaline. I could take on Joe—he could be three times my body weight—but I was certain at that moment, I could do anything!

I charged through the door, my gun cocked and aimed for the first person I saw. And that was Joe.

"You!" He growled, starting towards me. But seeing my gun, he stopped short.

"Hey, Joe." I said, smiling widely.

"You've been watching my place for a couple months—I've seen you around," Joe said, his baritone voice gruff behind gritted teeth.

"What can I say, I like the flowers."

"You're that cop's sister, ain't you?"

I gave him a look.

"I didn't come here to talk, asshat. Give me the key to the register. If you do it quickly, I won't shoot your knees. Make me wait—well, you'll see what happens."

Joe grimaced. He moved his hand to his apron pocket.

"Ah-ah!" I tsked.

"I'm getting the key like you asked."

"Keep the other hand up," I warned.

Joe slowly but surely put his hand in the pocket again and pulled out a shiny gold key. He threw it to my feet.

"On your knees," I ordered.

"You bitch—"

" _On your fucking knees_!" I shouted.

"Okay! Geez!" Joe whined. With difficulty, he moved down to the floor, holding his hands up where I could see them.

"You stay there." I said, gesturing to him with my gun. "If you so much as move a muscle, I'll blow your fucking head off. Understand?"

"Understood." He said lowly.

I opened the register, glancing at him suspiciously before taking the money and placing it in my jacket. Just as I was putting the last bill in the pocket of my jeans (I ran out of space in my jacket), my cell phone rang. I straightened, looking at Joe coolly.

"Don't you fucking move. Remember what I said." I told him.

I answered the phone.

"Sylvia." Oswald greeted, his voice was lower than usual.  
"Penguin," I greeted back with a smile. (The name seemed to have grown on him, and he appeared content for me to use it….if not more.) "How are you, honey?"

"Remember what we talked about?" Oswald questioned calmly. "Professionalism?"

"My apologies, sir," I returned smoothly.

'Penguin', he was to his employees and enemies. Oswald, he was to me…. except when I was playing the role of his Lieutenant. During these phone calls when he sounded business-like and mission forward, he wanted us to be completely professional: not boyfriend and girlfriend, but Boss and Employee. To keep the lines separated and not to mix anything lucrative in there.

I agreed.

"Do you remember when you said you wanted to work for me?"

"Yes, I do." I replied smoothly, eyeing Joe carefully.

Joe made a move.

"YOU STAY RIGHT FUCKING THERE!" I shouted, lowering the phone and raising the gun. "You want to die?"

"I'm going to fucking kill you, bitch."

"You can try, but you'll eat a bullet in the process!" I snapped. "Try something!"

Joe looked resigned to stay where he was.

I placed the phone back to my ear.

" _Sylvia_!" Oswald was yelling.

"I'm here," I returned calmly.

"What the **hell** are you doing?"

"I'm working," I answered.

"Are you…. wait, are you _robbing_ a store right now?"

I closed the register.

"As we speak," I replied coyly. "Seemed like a great opportunity."

"Well, are you finished?"

"Almost," I chirped. "I'm going to walk out of this store, Joseph. If you so much as to try to run after me, I'll gun you down. I won't stop there though. I'll go to your house and slaughter your entire fucking family. Then once I've finished painting their blood all over their bedroom walls, I'll rip out your fucking intestines and feed them to the nearest hobo I can find while you fucking rot. If you think I am bluffing, try it. But just so you know—I know where they live."

"You're fucking lying."

"So, you _don't_ live on 15th main street, near the Palisades?" I questioned knowingly.

Joe's face turned pale.

"That's what I thought." I mused. I hopped over the counter. "Now you sit tight and be a good boy, huh?"

The moment I was out of the front door, I started running. I didn't stop until I managed to get three blocks down and I ducked into an alley. I caught my breath, and placed the phone back to my ear.

"Oswald?"

"I'm still here, Pet. Are you okay? You sound out of breath."

"I was running."

"Are you hurt?"

"No." I answered dutifully. "Ship-shape."

"Good," he sighed in relief. Then he asked humorously, "were you really going to kill his whole family?"

"Well, no—maybe… I don't know, I was improvising."

He laughed on the other line.

"Are you making fun of me?" I questioned.

"Not at all," said Oswald sincerely. "I thought your threat was quite convincing."

"Now it **really** sounds like you're poking fun, Boss. Anyway, you were saying?"

Oswald spoke factually: "Don Maroni wants to hit Falcone back, to show him that he's not playing around. I'll be leading his men to the Russian. Maroni mentioned to me that we may need more men, depending on what we are up against."

"But you _know_ what you're up against," I said pointedly. "You know Nikolai—you met him yourself."

"I don't have many people in my employ, none that I deem reliable," Oswald said as though I hadn't said anything.

His voice was quieter now…. like he was trying to speak without being overheard.

"You said you wanted to prove yourself—to show me what you could do." He said smoothly. "To help me succeed in all my ambitions. You remember that conversation?"

"How could I forget?"

"I want to give you that opportunity."

"Aww, Ozzie!" I cooed.

"Calm down, Sylvia." He reprimanded. "This isn't a date. It's business. And it'll be dangerous."

"Danger's my middle name," I mused, leaning against the nearest infrastructure. "Well, it's not. It's Diana, but you know what I mean."

"Yes, I got the joke. We're meeting at the restaurant."

"Is that where you'd like me to meet you?"

"Yes," sighed Oswald with a hint of annoyance. "That's where I want you to meet me."

"Just being clear," I said, shrugging. "Don't get your feathers all in a bunch."

"We're leaving in twenty minutes."

"I'll get there in ten." I returned, starting down the road.

I thought that would be the end of the conversation, but then he said softly, "I love you."

"And I, you." I said sweetly.

He hung up, and I pocketed the phone. Two blocks ahead, I found my car, piled the cash into the glove box, and then sped down the intersections, not breaking for any lights or stop signs. I nearly ran over an old lady, but she lived.

.0

As promised, ten minutes later, I parked my car on the curb. When I came through the door, Gabe stopped me. Then he realized who I was.

"Hiya, Gabe." I greeted, smiling with tongue-in-cheek.

"Hi." He answered, giving me a dopey grin back. "I thought the boss gave you the day off."

"I don't just work _here._ " I told him, indicating the restaurant in general.

"Rob any banks recently?" Gabe asked lowly.

"No. Just a florist."

"Sounds like an easy job."

I chuckled, "You have _no_ idea."

As Gabe walked away to meet with the other fellows, Oswald came up to me, dressed in his best.

"You look dapper as usual," I commented, brushing a piece of lint off his shoulders.

"When I asked you to rob something," said Oswald quietly, "I didn't realize you would be doing it an hour later."

I shrugged saying, "You didn't specify a time."

"I didn't think I had to." Oswald hissed.

"Perhaps you should be clearer next time then, hmm?"

I lifted my shirt just a little and from the waist band of my jeans, I pulled out a clip of nicely folded hundred-dollar bills. I handed it to him and he placed it in the inner pocket of his dress jacket. I looked him over.

"I was serious by the way," Oswald stated as he straightened his suit, earning a curious look from myself. "When I said your threat was convincing, I meant it. It was very vivid….and, if I am being honest, a little unsettling."

I beamed at his approval. When I looked happy, he smiled in response. He loved seeing me happy. He took a seat at the table while we awaited Maroni's men, to include Frankie Carbone. Patiently, I stood behind Oswald. I straightened his collar; when my fingers grazed the nape of his neck, he shifted in his seat, rolling his shoulders back. He was tense, but not just from what would happen in a few hours. His fingers were lightly rested on the arms of the chair but as I started massaging his neck, they slowly clenched.

"Sylvia."

"What?" I asked innocently.

"This isn't the time _or_ place." Oswald scolded, looking up at me.

"Is it such a bad thing that I want to make you feel relaxed, Oz?" I asked coolly.

"I don't _want_ to be relaxed—it'll make me complacent." Oswald snapped, brushing my hands away.

I took a seat beside him.

"And by that, you're implying that _I_ would be responsible for making you slip? Catching you off guard?"

"You are the only one that can," Oswald said curtly. "I've told you before—you distract me."

I frowned.

"So why, then, are you allowing me to go with you to this warehouse, hm?" I questioned briskly.

Oswald looked at me for a moment and the annoyance in his face left completely. He took my hands in his. A simple display of affection lowered my suddenly defensive mood; I melted like butter.

All of Maroni's men belonged to _Maroni_. Oswald really had only me to trust, for now. I knew this all too well, and Oswald seemed to reconsider his position.

"I'm sorry for snapping at you," Oswald said remorsefully.

I leaned forward and kissed his cheek.

"Apology accepted. But just keep this in mind," I told him quietly as Maroni's men started inside the restaurant. "The things that make us weak can also make us strong."

Oswald beamed when I forgave him for his snippy remarks. Frankie Carbone approached us and I took my hands away from Oswald's, pointedly looking at the latter in regards to our conversation about the time and place.

"Why are _you_ here?" Frankie grumbled, seeing me.

"Call me a tourist," I said modestly as I stood to my feet, "But I do love to see the sights. I hear we're going to blow stuff up. When do we start?"

Frankie looked annoyed, glancing at Maroni who didn't seem to care in the slightest that I was coming along. After all, it was one more man to get the job done. Then we started on our way, on foot. The walk there was a little tense with Oswald leading our little wolf pack, Frankie and myself in the middle, and Gabe and a dark-haired, brown-eyed Italian by the name of Tomas gathering at the rear. Everyone but Oswald carried some kind of gun, myself included. In my hand was a pistol—the smaller the weapon, the better I wielded it. Machine guns, I found, only made me clumsy and encumbered.

Oswald led us to a door, reading "Authorized Personnel Only", seemingly sealed from the outside.

"In here, not much further," he said, approaching the double door and sliding it aside—not even locked!

Through it was a mess of warehouses.

He stopped and pointed to one in particular.

"It's there."

He looked at Frankie. Frankie nodded and held out his hand for the bomb. He smacked it on the door, keyed in the code, and in a minute, the door exploded off the hinges, creating a fine cover of smoke and debris. Gabe, Frankie, and Tomas charged in, gunning down anyone that moved. I strolled in as the debris was setting, looking up and around, noticing that aside from the stack of cash sitting around in bags and crates, there was not much else to look at.

"See," Oswald boasted happily. "Easy as pie! There must be a million dollars' worth here."

"Yeah, you told us all right," Frankie drawled. "You're clever. You're _very_ clever."

I narrowed my eyes at Frankie and suddenly there was nothing more I wanted to do than knock his teeth out.

"I sense a sarcastic and hostile edge to your tone," Oswald noted coolly.

"Hostile?" Frankie questioned, advancing towards him.

He struck Oswald in the stomach, hard. He went down, grunting.

"You bastard!" I snapped.

Frankie then struck me in the face, knocking me to my feet. Gabe grabbed my arms and held me back. I rubbed my jaw.

"You got that right," Frankie mused, smirking at him. "You ain't no golden goose, you're a yellow-rat snitch. And you've got Maroni all twisted."

Oswald gathered himself, standing to his feet, while also holding his stomach.

"I'm so glad we're finally clearing the air, at last!" He chuckled, smiling.

Frankie grabbed Oswald by the collar, pulling him forward.

"If she moves," said Frankie, glaring at me. "You shoot her."

"I don't shoot girls," Gabe muttered, looking suddenly sad, but he kept his hands on me so as to keep me down.

"Act smart," Frankie threatened Oswald. "Because all I gotta do is put a bullet in your brain right here" (I tried to get up by Gabe pushed me back down) "see then, I go back to the boss and tell him that one of Niko's boys shot ya. 'Gee, that's too bad'. End of _story_." Frankie hissed, pushing Oswald away. "As for her..."—He grinned maliciously at me— "We'll think of something else."

"Clever enough," Oswald said, smiling. "But I never doubted your intelligence. That's not your problem."

"Oh, I have a problem. No, you have a problem. What's _my_ problem, Shmo?"

"What drives you?" Oswald questioned.

Frankie looked at me with a 'wtf' expression and I shrugged, just as curious as him.

"What's your _passion_? When you know what a man loves, you know what can kill him," said Oswald grinning.

"So, following that logic, this little slut could shoot you instead." Frankie chuckled. "That would certainly save _me_ the trouble.

I hissed at him.

"If one were to follow the logic, yes. She very well **could** shoot me," Oswald said, gesticulating to me.

"We could try it," Frankie chuckled darkly. "See how quick your 'passion' kills you."

"We're not talking about her," Oswald reminded him, his voice sounded almost detached.

"Yeah, _asshole_ ," I hissed at Frankie, "We're not talking about me."

"You believe these guys?" Frankie questioned, glancing at the other men.

"Your passion is money," said Oswald. "You _love_ money. More than power and respect. You're a skinflint, Mr. Carbone. A _cheapskate_."

And just with a glance from Oswald to Gabe, the tables drastically turned. Gabe released me and I was able to stand up while he and Tomas grabbed both of Frankie Carbone's arms, restraining him. As big as both Tomas and Gabe were, Frankie had no possible leeway in strength.

"Wait, what are you guys playing at—let me go!" Frankie said….and there was the panic.

"Sorry, Frankie," Gabe spoke in his low baritone.

I stared at the scene folding out in front of me, stepping back.

"As I say, a cheapskate. And consequently, you don't pay your people enough!"

Well, that certainly explained why he wanted me to rob something—Oswald had given Tomas and Gabe the money I had stolen, enough to turn them against Frankie Carbone.

There was fear in Frankie's eyes—pure, legitimate fear—as Oswald pulled out a switch blade from the inside of his jacket. I realized at this point this would be the first time I would have ever seen Oswald actually take a life—sure, he beat the shit out of a guy who had stolen from Fish (back when he was her Umbrella Boy) but this was Frankie Carbone, Maroni's right-hand man.

I had never been more attracted to Oswald.

"It is a sad fact," he said, "that there is no honor among thieves."

Despite Frankie's increasingly loud protests, his restraints remained in place, holding him just as Oswald slid the blade through Frankie's stomach, like a knife into warm butter. He stabbed him twice, deep and slow.

 _Riveting._

"The simple offer of a substantial pay raise was all it took to sway these fine men," said Oswald, grinning from ear-to-ear. "So, you see, THAT'S your problem! Your greatest passion becomes your greatest weakness!"

He stabbed him again and then pulled the blade completely out.

Frankie was screaming in pain, losing his balance and falling to his knees.

Oswald looked down at him, panting. He caressed the man's face.

" _Love_ , Mr. Carbone." Oswald told him softly, glancing at me then turning back to him. "Love conquers all."

Frankie's screams had died and slowly became nothing more than moans. Gabe and Tomas dropped him carelessly on the floor. Oswald looked expectantly at me, straightening his tie. I cocked my pistol and stepped over to Frankie, looking down at him.

"Poor bastard," I sighed, shaking my head. "You really want to die right now, don't you?"

He lifted his hand to me, and touched my ankle.

"Mm…." I mused. "I'll take that as a 'yes'."

I shot him in the head.

Gabe and Tomas startled.

Oswald grinned as I stepped over Frankie, smirking at him.

"Get the money," Oswald ordered of the other two.

"Sure thing, boss." Gabe obeyed.

Oswald turned to me.

"You did beautifully, my dear."

"Why didn't you tell me what you were planning?" I questioned, glancing at Gabe and Tomas.

"If you knew they were not a threat, would you have reacted the same way?" Oswald asked smoothly.

"No…. perhaps not. But a head's-up would have been nice."

"It wasn't necessary," Oswald said, folding his hands together in front of him. "But you, my dear, you played your part beautifully."

I leaned into him, kissing his cheek. He turned his head slightly so my kiss met his mouth. It caught me off guard when he licked my bottom lip, and when I granted him the invitation, he deepened the kiss.

I whispered to him, "Fucking _genius_ , you are. You have _no_ idea how bad I want to fuck you right now."

"Duly noted," he answered, winking at me.

That response only made me want him more.

"Pack it up, boys!" Oswald said, making a gesture for them to rally. "We're heading out. We'll have to let Don Maroni know what happened. Anyone want to be the messenger?"

Neither Tomas or Gabe volunteered.

Oswald grinned, saying, "Kidding! You should see the look on your faces!" And he shook his head, laughing.

They both sighed in relief, laughing nervously afterwards.


	19. A Meeting About Another Meeting

Chapter Nineteen: A Meeting About Another Meeting

Author's Note: A happy Thank-You to Guest and Kat for reviewing my story at its early stage. Much appreciated!

Frankie Carbone, an underling of Maroni's, had died (supposedly) at the hands of Nikolai, one of Falcone's underlings, during the fire fight. Within a few hours of the incident, Maroni and company received word that Falcone wanted to meet near the pier, just the two Families—no Tommy Bones or the Duke….they weren't part of this dispute.

The restaurant was where Maroni and his people sat around the table, talking about what could happen, what may arise during the meeting, and whether or not bringing weapons was a necessity, and other vital issues soon rose.

Maroni sat at the middle of the table, watching everyone talk. Oswald was on his right hand side, seated in the very spot Carbone used to keep warm. Per the Don's request, I placed a fresh glass of booze in front of him. He smiled kindly at me.

"Thanks, babes."

I nodded wordlessly.

"Have a seat," said Maroni, gesturing to his left side.

"With all due respect, sir," I said with a small smile, "I'd rather remain standing."

He took care to notice that I remained just behind Oswald, on _his_ right side. Maroni shrugged a shoulder like he didn't give a crap whether I stood or sat; he was only being polite, after all. Oswald looked up at me from his seat then smiled to himself. I preferred standing next to Oswald any time of the day than sit next to one of the most powerful men in Gotham City. That meant something to him.

Maroni asked what his men thought about the situation. Across from him, an equally stocky man who had a habit of always wearing something yellow was talking.

"Why does Falcone want to see us anyway?" Mack questioned, crossing his arms on the table. "He can't just call and tell us what he wants to say? Wouldn't that be so much easier?"

"Why?" Maroni questioned in return. "Got somewhere to be?"

Mack looked like he might say that he did, but seeing as self-preservation was a priority, he appeared apologetic suddenly. He waved down one of the waiters and asked for a shot of whiskey.

"Why does he want to meet near the pier?" asked Crenshaw—nice guy, tall, had a thick Italian accent. "Ain't that _his_ territory?"

"It's neutral territory," said Maroni coolly. "Equal ground."

"What does he want, though?" questioned Crenshaw, gesticulating in frustration.

"Haven't you been listening?" snapped Mack, tossing back the whiskey the waiter brought by in a jiffy. "He wants to talk!"

"Talk about _what_?" Crenshaw retorted, shaking his head. "The whole thing has me uneasy. We should bring back-up."

Maroni shook his head.

"That'll make us look like we're compensating for something," said Maroni. He looked at Oswald. "What do you think, Penguin?"

Oswald opened his mouth like he might say something, but then Mack interrupted him.

"He's planning something, you know. An ambush….maybe?"

Oswald sighed, glancing at Maroni.

Maroni leaned forward saying, "That's _stupid_ thinking, Macky. Falcone's a pain in the ass but he isn't sneaky. Old-fashioned fella."

I cleared my throat.

Oswald looked up at me and Maroni's eyes glanced in my direction.

"Got something to say?" Maroni asked curiously.

"If I may?" I offered.  
Maroni gestured in my direction.

Before I could speak, Mack interrupted, "Maybe it's a decoy—"

"It's not."

"How the hell would you know?" questioned Mack curtly. "You got some secret sixth sense hiding up your crotch hole?"

Oswald appeared ready to come to my defense, but it wasn't needed.

"Fuck you, Mack."

"Suck me, bitch."

"Sorry, _small_ objects are a choking hazard," I snarled.

Maroni slammed his hand on the table, just as Mack and I were gearing up to fight. My jaw clenched in irritation as I looked at Mack who was glaring at me from across the table. I was only five paces away from kicking his face in, but seeing as Maroni obviously protested against violence in the family, I crossed my arms and seethed while Mack lowered himself back in his seat.

Oswald silently patted the chair beside him and sensing the tension in the room, I obeyed the nonverbal order. He placed his hand on my thigh, a comforting gesture. I remained still, arms still crossed. Maroni looked upon all of us, restoring order.

"I know we've lost a lot of good guys, including Frankie," said Maroni dangerously (Oswald and I glanced at each other knowingly) "But there isn't any reason we need to have a go at each other."

There was a mixture of disgruntled agreement among the table.

Maroni looked at me.

"You were saying?"

"It's not a decoy," I said coolly, glaring sideways at Mack, then at Maroni once more. "It's not an ambush either. And you're right, sir—we've lost men, but so has Falcone. Meeting on neutral ground, it's a treaty. It's a compromise to be made."

Maroni leaned forward, fingers interlaced together on the table, a small smirk tugging at his lips.

"You're not just a pretty face, _are_ you, Sylvia?"

I felt Oswald's fingers squeeze my thigh; hidden under the surface of calm and respect was a tinge of jealousy slowly grinding away in his mind at the image of Maroni even _thinking_ about my 'pretty' face. I smiled inwardly. _Ah,_ _possessive_ _little Ozzie. Kind of cute in a way._

I shrugged modestly.

"Fish isn't going to give Penguin up easily," said Maroni smoothly, smirking at Oswald.

"What Fish wants is irrelevant. Just like anything we want is irrelevant to _your_ decision. If you want to go meet Falcone, who are we to argue with you, yeah?"

Maroni laughed in genuine amusement, showing teeth.

" _You're_ funny!" Maroni said, pointing at me. "A _real_ class act, aren't you? You're funny, but you're right." He stroked his chin, looking at all of us. "We'll meet him."

"It's a waste of time, boss…." Mack muttered, shaking his head. "I don't think we should go…."

I glared at Mack saying pointedly, "It's not really up to you, is it? Besides, Falcone isn't interested in making a deal with _you_. He's not meeting **us**. He's meeting Don Maroni. Your presence isn't necessary, you yellow spongecake."

"Penguin, why don't you try keeping your broad on a leash, huh?" questioned Mack, glaring at me.

"On a contrary, I like her just the way she is," Oswald responded coolly, smiling sarcastically at him.

"It's done—Crenshaw, get the car. We're going to the pier. Bring a few of our guys, but don't bring _all_ of them. It'll look like a bunch of Italians climbing out of a clown car if we do," Maroni stated, getting to his feet. "Sylvia—you coming or staying?"

The fact that I had a choice in the matter made me ponder my relationship with the man.

Just as soon as he'd asked me, a few waiters and the bartender ran up to me and started talking about switching shifts and such. I'd been so caught up in the whole thing with Maroni, and Frankie's demise, I'd completely forgotten my role as a shift leader in the restaurant—granted I was no longer working there as a waitress.

Maroni waved to me and left, apparently I was excused from the ordeal. Oswald remained behind, while I spoke to each of his employees individually about holiday pay, and the like. When the trifles were over and all was comprised and out of the way, I turned to see Oswald standing with his hands clasped in front of him. He appeared to be contemplating something, deep in thought. I took a seat, taking a buttered roll from the basket sitting in the middle of the table.

"You're certainly in deep thought," I noted, tearing off a piece.

My voice shook him out of his reverie. Oswald pulled a chair, sitting next to me, and took my left hand in his. For what felt like the longest time, he traced every line on my palm, thoughtful….sweet. His lips parted to speak what was on his mind, but nothing came out. I put down the bread and turned completely, body facing him. His eyes met mine.

"I see the gears turning in your glorious brain," I told him quietly, smiling a little. "You're troubled."

"Troubled, I am not." Oswald reassured, smiling too. "But…." (Seriousness replaced the smile almost immediately) "Don Maroni may not care whether or not you come with him to this meeting, but I do."

 _Aww_ , _how touching_!

"I doubt I should go, Oz." I said softly.

"You're not frightened of Don Falcone, are you?"

"Falcone? Oh no, god no. It's Fish. When I think about her, I want to tear her eyes out and wear them on a key chain."

Oswald chuckled, "You have the most vivid aspirations known to man, my dear. But….we share a passion when it comes to Fish Mooney. By not being present at the compromise, you will only be validating what she already thinks about you."

"I don't care what Fish thinks about me." I stopped for a moment and looked at him pointedly. "Wait, _what_ does she think about me?"

Oswald sat back in his chair.

"She believes," he said quietly, "that she has you beaten, that she has won."

"She carves a fish into my neck, breaks your kneecap, and sends her idiots to beat the shit out of me, and thinks by doing all of that, she's won….won _what?"_

Oswald shrugged, saying, "That part, my dear, is unclear to me."

I stood to my feet, eating the rest of the butter roll, and sat on the table.

"I didn't even realize we were _playing_ ," I said smoothly, shrugging a shoulder. Then I looked at Oswald: "How do you know all of this? What she's thinking, I mean. You haven't talked to her, have you?"

"You're right. I haven't talked to her."

I titled my head in curiosity. Oswald moved to his feet, pushing the chair into the table; when he approached, he had a little devious smile as he stood in front of me. Silently, he placed his hands on my knees and ever so gently separated them so he could move between them. I could feel the heat rising to my face.

"What do you know that you aren't telling me?" I asked him softly.

He looked down at my lap, the hem of my dress had slowly crept up and above my thighs. His hands caressed the exposed flesh and for a moment, he looked as though he was lost in a trance. Then he met my eyes.

"What I am about to tell you stays strictly between us, Pet." Oswald said sternly.

I nodded dutifully, glancing at the staff of the restaurant. They seemed to play smart to mind their own business. But even their honored ignorance didn't seem enough for whatever secret Oswald had to share. He leaned into me, and kissed my neck. To the bystander, it was a display of public affection; for Oswald, it was a tactic. A strategist, he was.

In the simple gesture, two things happened. The hairs on my neck stood on end as my skin turned to goose flesh. And Oswald whispered, "Don Falcone."

I furrowed my eyebrows in response, only puzzled for a minute before putting the two pieces together.

"You're working for _him_?" I asked incredulously.

"It doesn't appear that way, but that's the point, isn't it?"  
"He tried to have you killed, Oz." I hissed, staring at him. "And he sent Zsasz after my brother! How can you work for Don F—"

Oswald held up his hand to silence me. Then he gestured for me to follow him.

I closed the door to his office after we both went inside.

"Before you get angry again," Oswald stated preemptively as he sat at his desk, "I'd like you to remember why you were not harmed when after my sentence was handed down."

"You asked him to spare me," I recalled.

"Precisely. And how do you suppose I ensured your safety?" Oswald replied, interlacing his fingers on the surface.

"You promised to work for Falcone _if_ you survived." I told him coolly. "Big stroke of luck that it was Jim then, huh?"

"Honestly, there was no 'if'." Oswald relented, smirking. "It was I who asked Falcone to give the job of killing me to Jim Gordon."

There it was—sudden rage.

"Are you fucking kidding me? You put my brother in one hell of a position, Oswald!" I scolded. "He's a fucking moralist, you know. Having someone like Falcone order him to kill _anyone—_ "

"I understand why you're upset," said Oswald, holding his hands out cautiously. "And you have every right to be. But if it wasn't Jim who was going to kill me, I would be dead. As I told Falcone, he is the only one in the GCPD that still possesses one _hell_ of a conscience."

I strode towards the desk, placing my hands on the edge as I leaned forward.

"You didn't think to tell me what you were planning?"

Oswald smiled innocently, saying, "If you knew what I was planning, you'd not have played your part so well."

"What _fucking_ _ **part**_?" I snapped. "I thought you were dead, Oswald. I nearly jumped off the roof of my apartment when I thought Jim had killed you!"

Oswald's face turned pale.

"You did?" Oswald asked quietly.

"I did." I reaffirmed harshly. "If it hadn't been for Jim telling me what really happened, I would have done it too."

Oswald sat back in his seat, looking drained. A silent moment passed between us during which Oswald contemplated his past decisions, knowing that he meant so much to me that I would have taken my own life so that I could be with him again. The sneaky expression for having such a strategic mind changed to one of remorse and he looked at me with puppy dog eyes.

"It doesn't matter now," I said hoarsely.

I walked past the desk to his right side and knelt down, sitting on my knees. He looked at me reproachfully.

"You're working for Falcone while under the guise of working for Maroni. It's precisely this kind of work that nearly had you killed in the first place," I told him quietly.

Oswald smiled.

"Are you going to beg me to stop?" Oswald asked curiously.

"Of course not," I said, surprising him. "But I would like us to move forward with a little more caution. Can you promise me that?"

"That much, I can promise you." Oswald returned.

He kissed me. I kissed him back. I stood to my feet and, smiling, I turned his chair to face my direction so I could sit on his lap. He grinned knowingly as I straddled him. I loosened his tie and he lifted the hem of my dress above my thighs, the fabric pooling around my waist. Oswald placed soft kisses along my neck and throat, lighting my flesh ablaze. His thumbs encircled my inner thighs, massaging and enticing my hips to a slow, rhythmic grind. After a few minutes, I could feel a lump in his pants become a hardened bulge; I grinned at my progress.

I felt a vibration against my knee, and for a moment I was curious before the music accompanied it—his cellphone stashed away in his pant pocket was ringing. At first, he ignored it, and it worked at first when the ringing died. Then it started up again.

"Might want to check that," I told him quietly, leaning forward and kissing his neck.

He adjusted his position, pulling the phone out. He suddenly sighed in exasperation.

"What?" I asked.

He showed me the caller ID.

It was his mom.

"That woman has impeccable timing," I chuckled. "Answer it."

"I am not—"

"If you don't, she'll just keep calling." I reminded evenly. "Trust me….thirty phone calls in one day is not even a record for her."

As he answered the call, I started undoing the buttons of his jacket. He looked at me pointedly, but I wasn't put off.

"Hi, Mother," Oswald answered, forcing a smile.

The conversation between them was hilarious to me as Oswald said curiously, "Why are you rearranging furniture in the first place….ask Mr. Yatsko to help—he's always volunteering his services anyway…."

When his jacket was unbuttoned, I started on his vest.

"It probably won't be done tonight, Mom, I have a business meeting coming up…." Oswald sighed, looking up at the ceiling as though praying for some patience. "The restaurant business is fine, I'm only meeting with a few associates."

"Sit up…." I whispered.

Oswald leaned forward and he shrugged off the vest and jacket while I helped take it off, cradling the phone between his shoulder and ear as he listened to his mom talk about….moving furniture around.

"It can't wait until tomorrow?" Oswald questioned.

I looked at him curiously.

He placed a hand over the speaker portion of the phone.

"What does she want?" I asked.

"She wants help moving furniture," Oswald whispered.

"Mr. Yatsko won't help?"

"He's gone for the week, apparently."

"Pfft, neighbors," I said, rolling my eyes.

I slid off his lap in favor of the floor, placing myself between his legs. He watched me with a strange smile on his face, like he simultaneously wanted me to continue and yet to stop. Either way, I kept on going, loosening the belt and unzipping his pants. Oswald lowered his hand from the speaker of the phone, tangling his fingers through my hair.

"Don't move it by yourself, Mom," Oswald sighed; it was his turn to roll his eyes. "No….because a lot of the furniture is five times your weight. No….I'm not telling you what to do."

"Tell her I will help her when I get home," I offered.

He might have rejected the offer if it didn't involve his mother asking for assistance. To quickly appease her, Oswald offered my suggestion and from the look of his face, she seemed pleased by it. After agreeing that I would be home to help, she hung up. He tossed the phone onto the desk, looking down at me as I pulled his cock out to play.

"She liked the idea," Oswald relayed to me as he ran his fingers through my hair.

"So glad she did…." I mused.

He was soft again but as I slowly worked him in my hands, he began to stiffen once more. I put him in my mouth, rolling my tongue around his shaft to the tip. I grinned when he moaned quietly.

"It appears you won't be going to the meeting after all," Oswald sighed, closing his eyes and allowing himself to give into my ministrations.

I let him go with a _pop_ , smirking up at him.

"It appears that way. You'll have to tell me how it goes."

His eyes followed me as I straightened, bending down only a moment to slide my underwear down my legs. I stepped out of them, and straddled him again. I ran my hands up and down his chest, over the white collared long-sleeve shirt he still wore.

His phone began to ring again.

Oswald cursed under his breath.

I leaned back grabbing the phone from the desk. I took one look at the name on the caller ID, and rolled my eyes.

"He's busy," I answered.

"Tell him to get un-busy," Mack said on the other line. "We got the car and we're on our way to the pier. We're waiting outside."

Oswald looked up at me curiously.

"I'll let him know," I said coolly.

"Be sure you do."

"Calm down, Spongecake. No need to threaten me." I returned, grinning widely. "He'll be out in twenty."

 _Click_.

Asshole hung up on me.

"The Calvary's here," I said, placing the phone on the desk once more.

Oswald made to move, but I remained seated on him.

"Sylvia…."

"I told them you'd be out in twenty minutes." I told him smoothly. "So they can wait. I, on the other hand, cannot."

Oswald realized that I wasn't letting him up any time soon. As wet as I was from sucking his dick, I didn't need any foreplay to sink my pussy onto it, feeling him deep inside. Oswald's head fell back against the chair, eyes closed, and a moan escaped his parted lips.

I didn't even need the full twenty minutes.


	20. Jim Drops By For A Visit

Chapter Twenty: Jim Drops By For A Visit

Author's Note/Disclaimer: Thanks again to those who have reviewed my story! I love hearing what people like about it. As a Disclaimer, I will state that the plot of _Gotham_ will be featured in my story and while some things will remain the same, I will be twisting a few subplots to fit my work. However, credit for the show's original plotlines belong to _Gotham_ 's writers. Much love!

* * *

Helping Gertrude move shit around was harder than I thought it was going to be. Her furniture was antique-y so everything I literally touched had to be moved 'very carefully'. Her couch was probably the heaviest, even with the two of us lifting and moving it only an inch. And sure as shit when it was finally in the right position and placement, she wanted it originally, she didn't like it so we were lifting and moving the damn upholstery for the next hour. Three hours later, my T-shirt was damp with sweat and I was certain my arms were going to fall off.

Mr. Yatsko was lucky he was out for the week—he would have been dead trying to help her.

Upset that she wasn't able to find the right arrangement, Gertrude sat down on the crooked couch, crossing her arms in a kind of pout. Her lips even puffed out as she shook her head, looking as though she might cry, even. I sat down on the adjacent cushion, leaning forward as I took a breather.

"It looks nothing like I wanted it to," Gertrude complained as she smacked the back of the couch.

"Give it time," I told her; I rolled my shoulders back and I felt my spine pop in three places.

Gertrude heard it too as she raised her eyebrows and looked at me remorsefully.

"Is this task hurting you?" Gertrude asked.

"Eh," I said, shrugging my shoulders. "I've been through tougher tasks. Don't worry about me."

She stood to her feet, tapping her chin with her right index finger, and started thinking aloud.

"Perhaps if we moved the coffee table, it would make things more…" She gestured with her hands.

"Open?" I offered.

"Something like that," she answered, biting the inside of her cheek. "But then the glare of the light, it'll be too much for my eyes."

"Why move any of it, though?" I asked.

She gave me a look that made me hold up my hands reproachfully—Fish Mooney was nothing compared to the evil eye this woman gave me!

"I'm all for the work out, Gertrude," I said gently. "I just want to know why."

"Change, I suppose," she sighed, looking at the entire living room in a generalized way. "I've had this place the same way ever since my little cobblepot was a baby, a tiny little swaddled thing in my arms." She rocked an invisible baby in her arms, and a genuine smile of reminisce tugged at her lips.

"Change is good," I said with a smile of my own. "Too bad Mr. Yatsko was out of town, huh?"

"Eesh, that Yatsko," said Gertrude, waving her hand dismissively at the door. "He all talk….no muscle, not great company."

She placed her hand on my shoulder.

"Thank you for helping me. Oswald would have but…. that restaurant keeps him busy day and night. Why is that?"

"Business is harder these days." I told her, patting her hand. "He'll come by when he can."

She looked at me as though I might say something more, but I didn't. She grinned suddenly, like a light bulb lighting up above her head.

"I know what we should do!" She gushed, the grin widening. "We should move the couch right there, the coffee table in front of it!"

"That's where it was before though."

"What can I say?" Gertrude giggled. "Turns out I didn't want anything moved after all."

I couldn't help but mentally hit myself over the head with the frying pan or hope that the chandelier above me would fall and crack my skull open. Despite my ailing jelly arms and the headache that was coming on, I put a pep in my step.

"Alright, let get this thing going," I said, rubbing my hands together.

"After, we might have to vacuum."

 _Fuck._

.0

My face hit the couch in my own apartment the moment I came in. I'd just considered taking a shower and having a drink when someone knocked on my door. My muscles ached, and I was amazed my arms were still attached to my body.

That didn't deter me from answering the door. I let out a sigh of relief when I saw that it was Jim, who looked just as relieved as I was.

"Good to see you're still alive," I noted, smiling at him.

I stepped aside and he came in, glancing at me before I closed the door to note that I was sweaty and tired.

"That's a different sight for sore eyes," Jim noted, putting his hands on his waist as I locked the door.

"What is?"

"Not seeing Cobblepot with you."

"Pipe down, big brother," I reprimanded tiredly. "You came to _me_ and you're in _my_ apartment. Mind your manners, yeah?"

Jim said nothing in response (what could he say to that, really?) and I walked to the kitchen, taking out a package of microwavable popcorn from the cabinet and a chilled bottle of wine from the refrigerator. Seeing where I was going with it, he took a seat at the table, and I placed a wine glass in front of him, filling it to the brim. He smiled in response, not as callous as he normally was. I joined him at the table, looking at him pointedly.

"What have you been doing?" Jim asked, giving my disposition another look.

"Helping Oswald's mother move furniture around," I replied seriously.

"I thought you'd be up to your ears in crime by now, settling scores…."

I grinned broadly at him, saying, " _You're_ in a mood. Wanna tell me about it, champ?"

Jim let out an exhausted sigh.

"Where do I even start?" He said, shaking his head.

"Most people start from the beginning, but we both know how you don't like to be like everybody else."

Jim returned, "How come you have to say it like that? You're the same way, you know."

"I do know," I agreed, grinning.

Jim looked haggard, more than usual. His face just screamed 'one bad day', and there was a curious steadiness to his hand that tipped the wine into his mouth. He took three gulps and it was already gone. Curiously, I poured him a second glass.

"I see Falcone is still alive and well. As well as our prick of a mayor. What happened to you and Harvey Bullock taking them down in a glorious battle?" I questioned, balancing my chin on my hand.

"Falcone got to Barbara before I could do anything."

Concerned, I asked, "Is she all right?"

"She's fine," Jim returned apathetically.

"Are _you_?"

Jim drank half the glass this time, setting it down. He leaned back in his seat, arms crossed, a grumpy expression frosting his features. He looked at me pointedly.

"She's fine otherwise. Scared, but…. physically, she's fine," he said hoarsely. "Victor Zsasz had her."

"Can't say I blame her for being a little scared. Victor's not exactly a homey guy to be around," I stated, taking a sip of my own wine.

Jim gave me a look.

"What?" I asked.

"Did he get to _you_?"

"No," I said, shaking my head. "But he's the reason I didn't intervene. He was a messenger—saying Falcone only wanted _you. You_ were on the contract, not me, he said." I said more as an afterthought: "Granted, had I known that all your cop buddies were going to leave you alone, I might have done something differently. What an asshole move."

Jim snarled quietly, lips upturning in a grim smile.

"Yeah, I didn't think that was going to happen either, to be honest," Jim muttered, shaking his head.

Looking up at me, he asked, "Did Zsasz threaten you?"

"No," I returned simply. "We spoke outside of a floral store, where he made Falcone's intentions very clear. Then he told me how to bust into Joe Green's place and take all of his money."

Jim said harshly, "So you're friendly with _him_ now?"

"Of course not. He was just being helpful." I said, shrugging. "Best hit _I_ ever made."

"I wish you would not talk about that," Jim muttered.

"About Victor or about the other thing?"

"The other thing."

I shrugged saying, "You know what I am, Jim. You know what I do for a living. If you don't like hearing about it, then why do you come to visit?"

"I just wanted to talk, to someone," said Jim quietly.

"Well, we're talking, aren't we?" I returned smoothly. "So how did you get out of the scrape?"

"He let Harvey, Barbara and me go," Jim admitted.

"Wow, he let you go for a _second_ time," I pointed out.

"Yeah, don't remind me." Jim drank the rest of his second glass, rolling his tongue over his teeth.

He then asked, "Did you worry?"

I chuckled, "What kind of question is that?"

"One that you answer 'yes' or 'no' to," Jim replied seriously.

"Yes," I said. "I worried about you. How could I not? You're my brother….my big, bull-headed, sometimes idiotic brother."

Jim leaned forward, arms crossed on the table, eyes narrowed. After some time passed, his expression softened, like whatever he wanted to say could wait another day. He sat back in his chair, fingers rolling the empty glass between his fingers.

I placed the package of popcorn in the microwave, hitting a few buttons, and listened to the machine hum for a few minutes before taking it out. I poured it into two bowls, placing one in front of Jim, who thanked me with a small smile before he was tossed back into his reverie.

I poured him yet another glass (his third one), watching him look at me with tired eyes.

It got me thinking of how many times had I seen him look this way after a bad case gone awry.

"You said you wanted to talk to someone. You came here. So, I'm assuming you don't feel like you can talk to your partner or Barbara about whatever it is that's on your mind."

Jim smiled at me, a thin smile like he was humored. But he knew I was right. After a moment, he spoke.

"Do you remember when I came home from the war?" Jim asked quietly.

"Yeah," I said. "You had on your Army uniform, spiffy hat—looked like a decorated soldier, and a proud son. How can I forget?"

"Everyone wanted to talk about the war—that's all _anyone_ wanted to talk about," Jim muttered, tiredly shaking his head (the wine was getting to him, apparently). "Dad, Uncle Frank, friends—all of them. It was like I couldn't get away from it, from the battlefield or coming home."

"Yes, I remember."

"But not you."

"Right, if I remember correctly, when I saw you, I said 'how's it hanging'." I chortled humorously. "You grinned so wide, I thought your face would get stuck that way— it was kinda creepy."

"You never asked about who I killed or why it needed to be done," Jim continued quietly. "You were just happy to see me again, happy that I survived. Then I went into training to being a cop. Dad, Uncle Frank—they were kind of annoyed by that, weren't they?"

"They weren't annoyed. They were proud of you, bud. But you traded one war for another," I said, tossing my hand to the air.

Jim tilted his head to side, saying, "You never once thought that I would fail the police academy, not even when I was failing math."

"Eh—Academics were never your strongest suit. At least, it's not a natural talent."

"And now, here we are," sighed Jim, gesturing to the apartment in a general way.

"If I didn't know you any better, I'd say you're trying to tell me something." I said, pointing at him.

Jim leaned forward. He placed his hands over my own, and I gave him a look.

He wasn't the sentimental type—in fact, he tried to be anything but that.

"I talked to you about what happened—the war and all the graphic details. And you never winced at my stories, never told me to stop talking," Jim said quietly. "Dad said he understood: The war of it all, but I doubt he ever truly did. The political side of it, the lawyer side of it, sure."

He kissed the back of my hand.

"Most days, I _hate_ that you've allied yourself with crooks, and are involved with filth like Maroni," said Jim honestly. "But there are times like these…. after Zsasz destroys the GCPD…. after everything that's happened with Barbara and Falcone…. I know I can come to you to talk, and know you won't tell me to leave when times get tough."

I smiled saying, "What are siblings for, huh?"

Jim grinned. It was odd seeing him smile these days. He ate another handful of popcorn.

"I will admit though," I said pointedly. "You've become a whole different kind of insufferable since you became a detective."

Jim laughed aloud, and I laughed too. Good times, indeed.


	21. I Shot An Old Lady

Chapter Twenty-One: I shot an old lady

Author's Note: 2/17/2019: Fixed some grammatical errors that have been driving me nuts after my read-through. Thanks again for reading! 😊

* * *

Oswald wrapped a little box in a canary-yellow ribbon as two of Maroni's old thugs who had recently been placed in Oswald's employ, gathered their weapons, adding a few more rounds before hitting the road. I leaned against the frame of his office door.

"Don't look at me like that, Sylvia," Oswald said with his back to me.

"Look at you like what?" I questioned, uncrossing my arms.

"I can feel your glare." He straightened and turned to look at me, noting my facial expression and he pointed at me: "That look."

"Well, forgive me if I seem a _little_ suspicious."

"You have nothing to worry about," Oswald coaxed gently.

"Maroni wants to send you to Fish Mooney's place to discuss terms of business, a woman whose temper resembles something of a very hairy scorpion." I stated with forced calm. "Why would I worry?"

Oswald leaned his backside against his desk, fingers drumming the edges. He gestured to the chair in front of his desk, implying for me to take a seat. I did so, lifting one leg over the other and crossing my arms over my chest.

"You don't happen to have a _grenade_ in that box, do you?" I questioned.

"Of course not. It's a gift."

"For her, yes, but why?"

"A friendly gesture."

"If it's chocolate, I hope it's laced with poison."

"It is not," said Oswald.

"'No' it isn't chocolate, or 'no' it's not poisonous?" I retorted coolly.

Oswald smiled.

"No to both."

"Too bad the Mayor ordered for the rest of the Viper crap to be disposed. Wouldn't mind watching Fish taking it and then becoming a pile of crushed bones and jelly."

He approached me, his hands holding either arm of my chair. His face was only centimeters from mine, so close that if I leaned forward a millimeter, we would kiss.

"As much as I love your vivid and hostile imagination, my sweet Dove, we must move forward," Oswald uttered softly. "We are going to pay Miss Mooney a visit, and discuss terms between our two benefactors. During that time, you will _not_ attack her" (I made a scathing noise) "unless _I_ give the word."

His lips kissed my own, lingering to graze my bottom lip.

"Let me get this straight," I said quietly. "You want to give Fish a gift and have a nice chat about territory while _I_ want to scratch the bitch's eyes out and call us even. And you're telling me you don't want me to?"

Oswald grinned, having a laugh.

"I like your passion, darling. It's one of the reasons I grow to love you more every day." Oswald stated, straightening and leaning against the desk again. "But violence wouldn't be in our best interests, not for the moment. We must proceed with a little grace, hm?"

"'Grace' isn't in my vocabulary," I noted, getting to my feet.

I started to leave but Oswald caught my hand and pulled me back unceremoniously. My body collided into his. He held me steadfast, and I felt my insides warm as he looked at me sternly. He held my wrists, placing them over his chest while his other hand caressed my jaw.

"I need you to play nice, Sylvia. Is that clear?"

"Crystal," I answered.

"That's my girl," Oswald drawled.

He nuzzled my neck, and I smiled at the sweet gesture.

* * *

As I got out of the car, I smoothed down my dress. For the special evening as it was all elegance when it concerned Mooney, I'd taken to wearing a black cocktail dress. Semi-casual, anyway. Tomas, the dark-eyed, black-haired Italian youth, held out his hand for me to take. Feeling uber-classy, I did so and he smiled politely.

Tomas had become something of a body guard just as Gabe had become Oswald's constant. It certainly made me feel important, being escorted by one of Frankie Carbone's pals since Oswald had taken his place the moment the man had been killed.

Oswald spoke in a hushed voice to Gabe and Tomas while I headed them off, stepping through the doors of Mooney's pride and joy.

The club itself hadn't changed. The red light glowed from all around the vicinity; once upon a dream, it felt like a warm hue, a campfire welcoming friendship. That was before Fish carved her club's symbol onto my collar bone and threw me out. It was barely visible from behind the black strap of my dress, but the hatred born had yet to leave—clearly.

There was a small musical number happening on stage, an old woman who was singing a lovely aria. I admired the singer for what she was, a small-bit performance piece in a spectral of money and disarray. The music itself was glorious; I nearly forgot the reason for being here until I heard a familiar voice creeping in.

"I thought I told you to never come back."

I smiled sarcastically, turning slowly to see Fish standing before me—in all of her radiant glory.

"Well, I just could _not_ stay away." I said with a delightful twist of a smile. "This was once my home, you know."

A subtle glint of spite didn't go unnoticed as her eyes bore down into mine. She approached me with the soft clicking of her golden stilettos, eyes narrowed, eyelashes thick with mascara and eyelids shimmering with white glitter. For a few seconds, she took me in. She reached out and I immediately pulled back.

" _That_ looked like it hurt," Fish drawled, pointing at the white scar.

"Well, it did." I returned, crossing my arms.

"Doesn't look like I cut deep enough." Fish breathed. "Perhaps I should make another?"

"You could, but then I would have to carve something into _you_."

"Bite me," she said.

"I did once already," I hissed. "But I'll be more than happy to do it again."

I took one step towards her and like a magician, Butch Gilzean popped up between us. He seemed ready to sic himself on me, but the music on the stage died as a new threat appeared behind me. Fish laid eyes on Oswald and suddenly, she smiled.

Oswald looked at me curiously, the tension in the room was heavier than Butch's breathing.

"Let's be civil, shall we?" Oswald said cautiously, glancing between Fish Mooney and myself.

I hissed but retracted my claws. Fish appeared to do the same as she muttered something to Butch, who chuckled at whatever she had to say. They turned to walk to the middle of the club, out in the open. Oswald touched my shoulder as I continued to glare after them.

He whispered, "Did you listen to a single thing I said back at the office?"

"She came up to _me_ ," I retorted, grinding my teeth. "If she hadn't, I would have been very well-behaved."

Oswald rolled his eyes, saying, "Will you _please_ play nice from now on?"

"I _was_ playing nice." I whispered harshly. "But she isn't exactly civil herself, Oz!"

"Just mind me, all right?"

"Minding." I chirped, holding up my hands in surrender.

Oswald sat down at the circular table. Fish sat across from him. I stood behind Oswald, arms crossed, my fingernails digging into my arms to keep myself from ripping Fish apart.

This woman was snide and arrogant, her simpering smile just grating on my nerves. Her smooth talking was just a silhouette of just how vindictive she could be. Sending her thugs to my apartment to get Barbara had only been a pre-text prior to Butch and his friends beating the hell out of me; regardless that I had stepped to the plate to protect Barbara, they had planned on beating me up no matter what I had done. Fish was civil—for now—but the faux nicety was enough to make me want to kick her in the shins.

 _One wrong move, Bitch. Give me anything and I will have you drinking your next meal through a fucking straw._

Three men stood behind her. Gabe and Tomas stood behind me. I remained on Oswald's right side, watching (or rather glaring daggers) at Fish.

Fish smiled at me, saying, "You look well, Sylvia."

"Don't talk to me," I said coldly.

"That's not very nice." Fish chided as though I was a child.

"Oh, you want 'nice'?" I returned. "I'll give you nice. May I _please_ insert a very sharp object into your body?"

Fish chuckled, "Are you politely asking if you can stab me?"

Oswald interjected, "She doesn't mean that."

"I'm fairly certain I do." I returned.

"Sylvia…." Oswald warned, looking at me.

I sighed deeply, rolling my eyes.

I held my hands up again and said in a honey-sweet voice to Fish, "Deepest apologies, Miss Mooney. I truly _don't_ want to cut off your face and feed it to your chimpanzees."

Her men standing behind her frowned at me while Fish grinned widely saying, "You haven't changed in the slightest, have you?"

"Not one _fucking_ bit." I reassured.

"Last warning." Oswald said sternly, glancing back at me.

I shrugged and crossed my arms again, but that didn't stop me from glaring once more at Fish, who looked at Oswald pointedly.

"She's every bit like her brother, isn't she?"

"You have _no_ idea," Oswald muttered, closing his eyes only a second for a prayer of patience. He smiled apologetically, and placed the yellow box on the table, scooting it towards her.

Fish looked at it blankly and said in the most sarcastic tone possible, "You shouldn't have."

"I wanted to make a gesture." Oswald said innocently. "I was hoping that in time, we could become friends."

"Friends?" Fish questioned apathetically. She suddenly smiled: "Hmm. Why not? What's done is done, right?"

"I am so glad you feel that way," Oswald said, smiling as well. Then to business: "Don Maroni wants us to clarify terms."

"Well, it's business as usual," said Fish, "Maroni still has his drugs, his unions. He pays tariffs for the ports. If he needs favors from the cops or the mayor, Don Falcone will consider it. And of course, the families still share Arkham."

"And there's not to be any blood spilled on either side," said Oswald calmly. "Not a drop."

"Mm. Maybe justa _drop_ ," Fish suggested half-joking, laughing.

Oswald laughed as well, wagging his finger at her, "Tsk-tsk-tsk."

Fish smiled widely.

"Look at you," she mused. "Timothy," (she looked at and referred to the bearded lad standing on her left) "Did you know this fellow here used to have your job. Carried my umbrella, and thought it an honor. Now look at him…. has a seat at the table."

"Things change, eh?" Oswald said, obviously humored. "What can I say. I've been blessed."

"Perhaps I should open your gift," she said.

She began to unravel the ribbon, lifting the top. Glistening under the lights was a golden broach, accompanied by a sharp needle that could in itself be used as a weapon.

"Oh, my goodness, that is beautiful," Fish breathed. "Now I feel awful. I didn't get you anything."

Oswald smiled.

"Oz..." I muttered cautiously, seeing the underlying glint in the woman's eye.

"Thank you," Fish said sincerely.

And then _stab!_

I admit that a few unsightly curse words left my mouth when the pin punctured the middle of Oswald's hand and had it not been for Gabe's hand that grabbed my elbow, I would have hopped over the table and stabbed the bitch myself. Tomas pulled out his gun with the same thought in mind, but Oswald held up his free hand, giving the nonverbal order for the rest of us to stand down.

Oswald had an _amazing_ amount of pain tolerance as he didn't even make a sound.

Fish withdrew the pin, sliding its pointed edge between her lips, tasting the blood.

"Mm…." Fish mused. " _Sweet_."

" _That_ was uncalled for," Oswald said with forced calm.

"I brought you into my family and I treated you like a son!" Fish snapped, eyes glaring. "And you betrayed me."

"For which I suffered!"

"Not badly enough. When I order some fool killed, I _expect_ him to stay that way!"

Oswald seethed, "Your boss, Don Falcone, expressly said—"

"Yeah, yeah, yeah, he wants peace!" Fish hissed. "That's the only reason your sorry ass is still alive and if I were you, I would _pray_ for his good health."

"Oh, I do," Oswald said, laughing a little. "I do."

"Good," Fish drawled. "Because remember…. things change."

"Convey my respects to _your_ Don."

"Likewise. Peace… 'friend'."

Oswald stood, and made his way out the door to leave. When Gabe finally let me go, I had half a mind to slit her throat. Fish and I glared each other down.

"Sylvia!" Oswald called as he was half-way out the door.

"You better go, little girl. Your _master_ 's calling," cooed Fish, grinning maliciously.

I looked at Tomas.

He looked at me expectantly, ready to obey whatever order I bestowed upon him.

"Give me your gun." I ordered.

He held it out to me immediately.

"You can't—" Fish began.

"Shut up—I'm not killing you." I reassured.

I cocked it, then aimed it at the entertainment on stage. The old woman, who had been singing a beautiful song with the most talented voice I'd ever heard, fell down on the wooden tile, hands on her thigh that was bleeding out quickly.

By that time, Oswald was already out the door but I heard him shout my name from the car, "SYLVIA!"

"COMING!" I hollered back.

I handed Tomas the gun. He pocketed it, looking a little fearful of me as I smiled kindly at Fish.

"Eye for an Eye, Miss Mooney," I told her coolly. "If you draw blood, so will I."

"Why you…." Fish growled.

She started toward me, but Tomas stood between us, gun cocked and ready to defend.

With a tongue-in-cheek smile, I walked out of the club. I stepped out in the air, feeling less suffocated. Getting into the backseat, I sat beside Oswald.

"Why did it take you so long?" Oswald huffed, annoyed.

"I shot the old lady on stage," I said simply, closing my door.

"Why?"

"You forbade me to hurt Fish. And someone had to get hurt for what she did to you, so I had no choice, really."

Oswald looked at me as though too many acorns had fallen off the tree. I leaned forward, looking between Tomas and Gabe and asked if they had any gauze with them. Tomas reached into the glove box, rummaged through it, and handed me a full first-aid kit.

"You're awesome, Tom," I said happily.

He grinned at my praise.

"Take us back to my apartment," I instructed.

Gabe glanced at Oswald for his approval. Oswald waved at him to do what he was told with his good hand while I took the injured one and placed it on my lap.

"What are you doing?" Oswald asked.

"Don't worry about it."

I poured rubbing alcohol over his hand, dampening my dress, and he hissed at me. But he didn't pull his hand away. As Gabe drove us to the apartment, I rubbed ointment over the puncture and bandaged his hand with tape and gauze. Oswald looked at me.

"You don't have to do that," he said. "I'm more than capable…."

"I know you are." I returned softly.

He said in a slightly annoyed voice, "Sometimes I can't tell if you're an angry guard dog, my girlfriend, or my mother."

I patted his wrist, saying, "Good as new."

The brakes squeaked as the car came to a halt in front of my apartment. I stepped out of the car, rounding it and opened Oswald's door. He stepped out. I smiled at Gabe and Tomas, gave them a hundred dollars each so they could hit the bar in town, and asked them to leave.

Oswald followed me wordlessly, more curious than anything. I opened the front door; he followed in after me, choosing to sit on the couch while I rummaged through the kitchen. After ten minutes, I came back and placed a cup of hot chocolate in front of him.

"I am not a child," Oswald told me. "I do not need hot chocolate."

"Of course, you don't 'need' it. That's all the more reason to drink it." I insisted.

"I am not drinking this."

About thirty minutes later, he was in a black robe, sitting on the couch with the cup in his non-injured hand, trying to fish out the little marshmallows with a spoon so as to eat them first before drinking the rest of it.

Oswald looked at me, showing me his empty cup.

"Do you have more?" He asked.

"Plenty." I answered, taking it and heading back to the kitchen.

I came back with a fresh cup, sitting down. Taking the remote from the coffee table, I flipped through the channels briskly, watching the news. Oswald snuggled up to me, his face nuzzled between my shoulder and neck.

"Perhaps you were right," Oswald said softly.

"About?"

"I should have definitely given her poisonous chocolates," he grumbled.

"Told you." I sang.


	22. What Are Siblings For

Chapter Twenty-Two: What Are Siblings For

Author's Note: I enjoy writing Oswald & Sylvia scenes but writing chapters with Jim and Sylvia's sibling bond is almost just as fun! (Almost.) Hope you enjoy!

* * *

Oswald went to visit his mother to give her the gift that Fish had 'politely' declined. While he did that, I went ahead to the GCPD. Knowing the officers had sacrificed their own honor and left my brother like a lamb to slaughter for Zsasz, I had a hard time letting it go. After all, Jim and Oswald were my only family. I was going to give them a piece of my mind.

As a pre-text, I had made cookies. Walking into the station, I was normally greeted by happy souls who were ready to hug me and shower me with compliments about my hair and fashion but this time, I noticed that a _lot_ of them were going out of their way _not_ to notice me. Their shame was eating away at them, knowing they'd left _my_ brother for dead.

I dropped by Alvarez' desk as he was normally the point man for knowing where Jim was when I couldn't find Harvey Bullock. He looked up, saw that it was me, and smiled uneasily.

"Hey, Sylvia," he said.

"Hey, yourself." I returned coolly. "Do you know where Jim is?"

He pointed up at the balcony where I noticed Jim was seated, perusing some work files. On my way up the stairs, I met the happy Forensic, Edward Nygma. He always wore a lab jacket, glasses, and was always smiling. He had a knack for puzzles. While Jim and Harvey said it could be annoying, I didn't mind it so much.

Instantly, he recognized me.

"Miss Gordon!" He gushed.

"How're you doing, Mr. Nygma?" I asked.

I held out the box of cookies, offering him one.

"Oh, no thanks. I just had a blueberry muffin," said Nygma gratefully, putting his hand over his stomach indicatively.

"Well, later then," I offered kindly.

He grinned widely, saying, "Do you like riddles?"

"I like them enough," I answered, nodding.

"Oh good! I have one—well, several—if you want to give it a go, but you probably don't…."

"Sure. Give me one." I said, holding my hand out to him.

He looked surprised, but happy.

"What is harder to catch the faster you run?" Nygma asked.

I answered a moment later, "Your breath."

He grinned even wider (did _not_ think that was possible).

"Kudos for getting that right," Nygma said, chuckling. "You'd be _amazed_ how many people here don't get it." He looked at everyone before rolling his eyes, turning back to me.

"I have one for you," I told him. "For someone like you though, I doubt it will be a challenge."

Nygma crossed his arms, looking smug now that I complimented his intelligence: "Fire away."

"If someone robbed you in the shower," I said smoothly, "what would you be?"

Nygma took a moment, cracked another grin and said, "An eye _wet_ ness!"

I chuckled, "Didn't think I would stump a guy like you."

"Sylvia?"

Nygma and I looked up to see Jim standing over the balcony, leaning forward, and watching with an odd expression on his face as he watched us mingle. I smiled apologetically at Nygma, who shook his hands as he stepped to the side on the stair case, allowing me to go on ahead. I met Jim on the balcony; he turned to me curiously.

Jim said wearily, "I hope he wasn't bothering you."

"How could he?" I said, shrugging my shoulders. "Seems like a nice guy over all. Wicked good at puzzles, ain't he?"

"Yep," sighed Harvey as he joined us, "That's why he's our Forensic guy. Those riddles, though…. _eesh_."

I smiled kindly, "I like riddles."

"You'd be the only one," said Harvey gruffly.

I gave him a look then, seeing Jim just as grumpy, I said pointedly, "What the hell is wrong with _you_ two?"

Jim sat down, shaking his head tiredly.

"Are those cookies?" Harvey asked, eyebrows rising.

He moved past Jim and took the box from my hands, setting them on his desk before eating two at a time.

Taking one, he said, "If this doesn't make a man feel better, I don't know **what** will."

"What about having sex on a nudist beach?" I suggested.

Harvey cracked a grin, looking at Jim saying, "She certainly knows her way to a man's heart, doesn't she, Jimbo?"

Meanwhile, Jim looked at me uncomfortably. No doubt he had the unwelcome image of Oswald and me on a beach, making love. I pulled up a chair, sitting in front of my dear old brother.

"You're grumpier than usual. Having a bad start on a case?" I asked.

"Should we tell her?" Jim asked, looking past me to his partner.

"I doubt we should," Harvey mused, propping his feet on the desk, crossing his ankles. "But then again, any insight would be a welcome relief. Are these chocolate chip?"

"Chocolate chip and white macadamia nut," I answered. "Tell me what?"

"Oh, god, send me to heaven." Harvey sighed, closing his eyes as he let the savory goodness wash over him. "I'm going to get some milk. Want any, Jimbo?"

"No, I'm fine." He said briskly.

Harvey left briefly, leaving Jim and me alone—or as alone as two people could be in a police station. I leaned back in my chair, observing Jim's increasingly grumpy attitude. Normally, he was all about conversation, but now, he seemed a little pissed off.

"What's wrong?" I asked.

"Police business," said Jim.

"That's never stopped you from talking to me before," I returned smoothly.

Jim gave me a look, but I only returned it with a knowing smile. Jim glanced at the other cops around him, but ultimately, it was like he didn't give a shit if I knew what they were working on anymore. He leaned forward.

"Richard Sionis," said Jim.

"Am I supposed to know that name?" I asked curiously.

"No…. but it wouldn't surprise me if you did," said Jim with a frown. "He's in financing, manages Sionis investments. And he's been staging fights for employee candidates. Our last suspect crapped out. Took a lot of money from Sionis to keep his mouth shut—lawyer jumped in before we could get a signed confession," he grumbled.

"So, find out where he's staging the fights," I proposed.

"We're trying," he answered. "Harvey's running the search."

"Well, if you ask me…."

"I didn't."

"Then why are you telling me this stuff if you don't want my opinion," I asked pointedly.

Jim made a low guttural growl as he said quietly, "None of them will help me, Vee."

"Because you're on their wall of shame," I reminded. "If you want though, I'll help you."

"You're a civilian."

"I'm also your sister," I pointed out.

"That doesn't make you an exception."

"But it _does_ give you an extra hand." I reminded.

Harvey came back with two sheets of paper and a glass of milk, setting the latter down on the desk as he appeared preoccupied. He put on his coat.

Harvey said irritably, "Take a look at this—Sionis owns half of Gotham."

"This Sionis sounds like a snob," I noted.

Harvey gulped down the milk, leaving the remnants of the evidence along his mustache. He licked his lip, rubbed face with his hand, and looked at me.

"You're not wrong," he said, smiling ironically at me. "I've got all the places, Jimbo—but there are a lot of 'em."

"We'll split up," said Jim, getting to his feet and putting on his own coat. "We'll focus on the buildings that are abandoned, or under construction first. This son-of-a-bitch is not getting away."

"I'll say one thing, he has _your_ number." Harvey said, ignoring my presence and looking at Jim.

Jim demanded, "What are you talking about?"

"Sionis," Harvey answered. "You may not have put down Cobblepot, Jimmy boy," (He glanced at me in reference to Oswald) "but you've got a demon in you. You can call yourself a soldier, but all this fighting Falcone, fighting other cops, you _love_ it. So, when you find something that seems remotely possible, you call me."

Harvey strode past him. I raised my eyebrows, looking after Harvey, then turned to Jim who was about to say something but then his phone started ringing. He glanced at the Caller ID before answering it.

"Barbara? Is everything all right?" He asked. Then after, "Can we talk later? I'm kind of in the middle of something."

Whether the conversation was finished or not, he hung up.

"Wow, that was kind of rude," I said coolly.

Jim looked at me for a long moment, and I wondered if he was going to hit me. Then, without further ado, he handed me a sheet of listed buildings.

"What…." I began.

"You said you wanted to help, didn't you?" Jim questioned.

He started walking. Then he briefly turned to me and said, "Aren't you coming?"  
"What's changed _your_ mind so quickly?" I asked as I followed him.

"Harvey isn't in a hurry to find this guy, and I don't trust these people"—Jim referred to the other cops that had left him for Zsasz— "And you've proven to be pretty capable with a gun." Jim uttered darkly.

He stopped at the front door.

"Which reminds me…." Jim said. He put his hand inside his jacket and handed me a gun. "This is my spare."

I smiled happily.

"You'll help me, won't you?" Jim asked—his voice almost sounded desperate.

"What kind of sister would I be if I let you go it alone?"

Bitterly, he smiled at the sentiment as we both headed out of the police station.

* * *

Heading to an abandoned building on the heels of my brother hadn't been the endgame I was looking for when I'd gone to the police station to give the other cops a piece of my mind. But on the whole, I had to say that Jim letting me tag a long was one of the most endearing moments ever. He only took my attire in consideration when we stepped out of the car and he noticed I was wearing a knee-length dress and heels. I guess his detective skills weren't sharp until they were forced to realize the gravity of the situation that I was very much unprepared in the context of apparel.

"Will you be all right in those?" Jim asked, glancing at my stilettos.

"I can keep up," I reassured. "This isn't my first manhunt."

"For once," Jim muttered, "I'm happy to know that."

We walked carefully but quickly into the building, minding our surroundings. I was on high-alert, but damn, did it feel good. The rush of adrenaline spiking through my fingertips, the fast thumping of my heart—I could feel it in my head, even! I was a few steps behind Jim as we turned a corner; he held out his hand in front of me, stopping me in my tracks.

I whispered, " _What?"_

He looked at me.

"Stay here."

" _The fuck I will_ ," I hissed. "Dim lighting, unnatural silence—that's a perfect setting for an ambush, Jim."

"It was a mistake," Jim muttered. "Bringing you here…. I don't know what I was thinking…."

"Don't get cold feet on me now," I warned. "You gave me your _gun_. Might as well see this through."

Jim grimaced, regretting every life decision that brought us to this moment.

"Just wait for me." He said quietly. "Wait for my signal."

"What's your signal?"

"It'll sound like screaming," Jim answered.

I blinked.

"Did you just make a _joke_?" I asked incredulously.

"I was half-joking, trying to set you at ease."

"And you say _I'm_ the one with the dark sense of humor," I muttered, shaking my head.

"Just shut up and wait for my signal, okay?" Jim hissed.

"Again— _Rude_. How does Barbara even deal with you?" I returned sarcastically.

"Just stay put."

"So protective." I muttered.

"What are siblings for," Jim grumbled.

I rolled my eyes and he slowly headed around the corner while I pushed my back against the wall, head straight forward, listening for anything that sounded remotely like trouble. I held the gun in my hands, tightly, my knuckles turning white.

 _Any moment…._

"G.C.P.D!" Jim said aloud. "Is anyone else here?"

Then _whack_!

I winced, leaning further back against the wall, away from the corner. That wasn't screaming. That was something else. I remained quite still for the next ten minutes, thinking for the best but I was expecting the worst.

 _He's dead. He's definitely dead. He's dead, dead, dead, dead…._

I bent down on my knees, looking around the corner, everywhere but ahead.

There were cages. _Cages_. Humans inside. They were slowly getting out, looking around and at each other. There was a total of six people, all wearing business suits, all of them wearing masks. Jim was in a chair. I was just ready to head over and kill these motherfuckers before a voice called from the intercom.

"Jim…Jim…. wake up. WAKE UP!"

The sound alone startled me, and Jim woke the hell up. He was on his feet. I rushed over to him. The loud clicking of my stilettos alerted the six people as they turned, looking surprised.

It chuckled darkly, "Oh, Jim…. you didn't…."

 _He can see us._

I looked up and around, the source of the voice hidden in the darkness. There were desks and chairs all around the area, one big clusterfuck. The six men that surrounded were tall, stocky, larger than me. A match between them would fuck me up, big time.

"What…. the…. fuck…." I mumbled, glancing at all of them.

"Sionis," Jim muttered, glaring at all of them.

"Six of you applied for a position at my firm," said Sionis. "I explained, then, you can use any weapon here at your disposal. The last man standing gets the job."

"Seriously, what the fuck…." I muttered.

"However," Sionis continued. "Tonight, is special. You see the _man_ without the mask?"

I glanced at Jim.

"Whoever kills him is the victor."

"You have to get out of here, Sylvia," Jim hissed.

"As for the woman…." Sionis mused. "Do what you want with her."

"Come on!" I shouted at the ceiling. "Are you fucking kidding me!"

"Sylvia, get out." Jim growled.

"By the way," Sionis said from the intercom. "All exits are sealed from the inside."

I grumbled, "Fucking _dick_."

"Listen to me," Jim said carefully. "I'm a cop. So far, none of you have broken any rules."

I cocked the gun, and rose it eye-level with anyone who dared to come near my brother and me.

"Let the games begin," Sionis drawled.

The men started forward.

"Sylvia, get behind me," Jim whispered.

"Fat lot of good _that_ will do, Jimmy," I muttered. "They're _surrounding_ us. And **I** have the fucking gun."

"That won't help," Jim hissed.

"Why the fuck not?" I questioned.

"It's loaded with blanks."

I looked inside the gun. Sure enough…

"Why the hell did you give me a gun with nothing of value?" I snapped. "You said you trusted me with it."

"I didn't think it—"

"Oh, s _hocker_ , you didn't think. I'm even surprised you became a detective."

"Let's not argue about this now," Jim snapped.

The bell rang, starting the fight.

" _Last chance,_ _ **no body move**_!" Jim threatened.

"Oh..." Sionis added. "I'll also throw in a million dollars as a signing bonus."

"Oh crap," Jim sighed.

"Wow, for _that_ amount, I might kill you too." I chuckled darkly, looking at him pointedly.

"That's not funny." Jim snapped.

"What— _you_ can make a dark joke but **I** can't? You're a hypocrite."

The men advanced.

"Just so you know," I warned them. "The last man who tried to rape me, I shot him in the face. And this gun isn't full of bullets, but I can use this as a club."

They seemed a little hesitant to do anything _but_ kill me now. They all picked up staplers, and three-hole punchers, ready to cause some damage.

"Game plan—what's your game plan?" I asked quickly, dodging a lunging move from one and a swiping move from the other.

Jim kicked one in the gut, saying, "I don't have one."

"How do you _not_ have a game plan?" I spat, glaring at him.

"I didn't expect _this_ when I said that you could come!" Jim snapped, throwing another man over his head.

Kick one in the face, two in the balls.

 _That'll keep them down._

Jump on the desk—god _damn_ this thing is wobbly—oh **shit** , he's coming right after me.

 _ **AH!**_

The gorilla clucked me on the jaw, throwing me onto the floor. A pair of legs straddled my waist. I threw my hands at any body part I could find, doing my best not so much to escape as I did to maim. He was laughing above me—I don't know who—but he was laughing, throwing spittle on my face.

Jim threw a man over the desk; a cry of pain followed, then….

"GET THE HELL OFF HER!"

My captor was lifted off me by the collar of his shirt and shoved into the desk; Jim kicked him in the face, knocking him out. He grabbed my hand, lifting me to my feet.

"Are you okay?"

"Peachy," I panted.

"Good, now help me, would you!" Jim said, just as breathlessly.

"Give me something sharp!" I shouted.

"What happened to using the gun as a club?"

"Well, pardon _me_ for not holding onto it while this prick tried to grip my ass and throat," I snarled, furiously gesturing to the man that had not moved since being thrown into the desk. "Now give me something fucking sharp!"

He grabbed a letter opener—of all things—and tossed it to me. I shoved it into one of the men's eyes and he screamed bloody murder. Jim took on three of them while I dealt with the last one. The last one was of average height, stocky, and his mask had been torn off during the scuffle.

"Come on, baby," he said with a grated voice. He wiggled his fingers for me to come get him.

I took off my stiletto and then hit him over the head with it. After that, I forgo the rest of the fight without shoes. Jim finished kicking one in the ribs and the last got his arm twisted in two places, the latter screaming and crying for his mother. I raised my eyebrows, ultimately impressed with Jim's performance before I heard a loud laugh coming from the darker darkness.

"I knew you had a killer in you!"

He stepped from a cubicle, wearing a scary, dark looking mask and carrying a samurai sword.

"Sylvia..." Jim breathed.

"I know, I know," I said, getting my heel out of a man's forehead and putting it on. "Stay behind you."

The masked fellow followed my every move. And for the first time since coming here, I felt a little intimidated, and was grateful that Jim was as protective of me as he was. Jim kept his arms open and wide in length, placing distance between the masked figure and myself. Eyes the color of ice stared me down from the toothy mask.

"That sister of yours…. There's a killer in her too, isn't there?" Sionis said, his voice muffled slightly. "She's a bit of fire…."

"You don't know anything about her." Jim spat.

"But does _she_ know about _you_?" Sionis said, tapping his sword on the desk and pointing it towards him.

I started slipping to the side, stepping back a little at a time.

"James…." I whispered.

Sionis chuckled darkly, deeper. He started forward carefully, like a tiger analyzing his prey, on the ready to attack.

"Sylvia," Jim said carefully. "Move."

"Jim..."

"Get as far from him as possible!" Jim shouted.

"But—"

Sionis swung his sword at Jim, who ducked in time and it cut a chair in two.

"I'm leaving!" I called, getting literally as far from the guy as I could.

I could throw and take a punch as great as the next guy, but in this scenario, Jim was the expert fighter.

The sword fights were amazing, to say the least. Heavy, stocky swings on Sionis' behalf were met with Jim's instinctive ducks and quick movements. Chairs were broken, punches thrown, leading to the epitome of the fight during which Jim stood on the desk with the same sword pointed down at a disarmed Sionis. The look in Jim's eye—that look— like he might kill him.

"Jim…."  
He looked at me.

Whatever he saw, whatever he thought at that moment pulled him out of the trance and he hopped off the desk, looking tired and worn but otherwise, victorious.

A woman called out to the area, "JIM!"

I looked past him to see Capt. Essen and another uniform headed our way. Just as she caught his attention, Sionis rose to his feet to do unto Jim what the latter could not—until, that was, Jim clucked him in the jaw with his fist and Sionis fell to the floor.

He wasn't giving up. He took one more swing.

I kicked him in the nuts; he grunted and made a gagging noise.

"Now, stay down!" I snapped.

Capt. Essen looked at me curiously, surprised that I was there.

"Thank you," said Jim.

"You're welcome…." She returned offhandedly.

"This was fun," I said smartly, smiling at Jim. I patted him on the shoulder. "I'm going to go home and have a heart attack now. See you later."

He took my arm, and I looked at him curiously.

"Thank you, Sylvia. For having my back." Jim said breathlessly.

I shrugged, saying, "What are siblings for?"


	23. Sadist, The Friend With Falcone

Chapter Twenty-Three: Sadist/Friend With Falcone

A/N: Again, I appreciate all the lovely reviews. Just as a warning, this chapter gets a little gory and shows Sylvia's more sadistic side. Longest chapter ever! :)

* * *

When I came home, my first thought was to lie down on the bed and have my planned heart attack, thanks to the misadventures of helping my brother get rid of Sionis. However, as I opened the bedroom door, I saw a curious sight, one that made me smile. On the made-up bed covers was a dark blue satin dress with a brilliant turquoise blue trim. Sitting just adjacent to its neckline were snow-white, 3-inch, open-toed heels. Lying on the dress was a single sheet of college-ruled paper, words written in black ink. I touched the dress first, admiring its stellar beauty. The letter was written in Oswald's handwriting:

 _Pet,_

 _I had business to take care of before coming home regarding a matter of great importance. I guessed your size and am certain the commodities on the bed will fit you perfectly. You're welcome to join me at the following address as I am sure you will enjoy what the occasion has to offer._

 _If you decide to come, wear the dress and stilettos._

 _I have dinner reservations._

 _Love,_

 _Oswald_

At the bottom, the address mentioned was written out.

A letter like that could leave a girl smiling. Mine stretched from ear-to-ear.

I set the letter down and looked at the dress and heels. Did I really need to think twice?

After showering, I slipped on black stockings, and tried on the dress. As he had guessed, the dress fit close to perfection. The hem rose just above my kneecaps, and conformed to my figure like it was made out of the finest material, and the neckline slid off the shoulders a bit. The color of it alone brought out the redness of my hair and the blue of my eyes. With the addition of winged eyeliner and mascara, I was incredibly sexy.

Driving there wasn't the hard part. It was actually finding the warehouse in which he was located that proved more of a difficulty. I parked the car more than a few feet away from it and strolled through the double doors. The white light of the sun contrasted greatly with the dim lighting inside, but it didn't take my eyes long to adjust, seeing the fine silhouette of Oswald sitting at a steel metal table with his back facing me. I looked around, curious to my surroundings.

"Oz?"

Having been preoccupied with something, Oswald startled shortly, craning his neck to see me. Seeing me in the dress he'd picked out just for me, his lips parted in fascination as he stood. Then he smiled widely.

"What do you think?" I asked, spinning around.

"It looks a lot better on you than it did on the mannequin," Oswald noted breathlessly.

I kissed his cheek.

"Thank you for the rose, and the letter," I said. "It was very romantic."

Beaming at my compliment, he said with a mischievous smile, "It's only a small detail of the night I have planned."

"I have no doubt about that," I returned. "Does that include the part about 'business'?"

And just as we were talking, two bearded men with oily, slicked black hair came staggering inside the building on either side of a fearful, wide-eyed man who looked all too familiar.

"Is that Timothy?" Oswald said happily.

The two men stopped in place, holding a struggling, helpless man…. Fish's newest Umbrella Boy.

Timothy looked at me before looking at Oswald fearfully as he approached him.

"We met at Fish Mooney's, hm?" Oswald said, holding up his left hand indicatively where Fish had notably stabbed him. "I'm the fellow who used to have your job. I was hoping to ask you a few questions."

"Please," Timothy began. "I don't know anything—"

"Shhhhhhh!" Oswald interrupted.

Timothy looked extra fearful.

"There will be time for that," Oswald reassured. "But…. first things first."

He stepped to the side and sat down in the same chair, holding a knife and apple. I looked at him curiously for only a moment before the two men who'd brought him inside the warehouse started beating him up. The first punch thrown had me staring obliviously.

Then I glanced at Oswald, who grinned at me.

"I know how much you wanted to hurt Fish," Oswald said sincerely, eyes reflecting the same emotion. "So, I thought you'd enjoy the opportunity. You're more than welcome to join in with the boys."

"They seem to be doing fine without me," I noted, watching the two men beat down on poor Timothy. "It's not him I want anyway."

"Go _on_ ," Oswald encouraged, slicing the apple vertically. "Tonight, it's all about you. Just don't kill him."

"Well, where's the fun in _that_?" I questioned, crossing my arms as I watched the two men kick Timothy in the sides.

He was flailing about, arms up in any direction to block them. I tilted my head, noticing that this man had no sense of pain tolerance what so ever. His nose was bleeding, and there was a certain grunt he would make when the boys kicked him in the gut. I looked at Oswald, who watched me eagerly.

"You want to watch me hit a guy?" I asked curiously.

"What I want is to see you happy," Oswald insisted, gesturing his knife to Timothy.

"Well, if you want to see me happy, you'll spank my ass with a riding crop and then fuck me until I can't walk anymore," I responded coolly, rolling my shoulders back.

Oswald's eyebrows raised, interest peaked.

"There's no filter with you, is there?" Oswald said ironically. But there was no hiding the dangerous little glimmer in his eye at the thought of my casual suggestion.

"You know me," I said with a sly smile. "I know what I want."

Oswald grinned broadly, knowing that to be correct. I was direct, straightforward—and he liked it that way. There was no need for guesswork.

"Please!" Timothy grunted—Oswald and I looked at him— "I don't" (he was punched in the face) "know anything!"

"Well, _that's_ a lie if I didn't know one," I sighed, shaking my head.

I stepped forward. Oswald's eyes brightened when I did, seeing my initiative take hold.

The men glanced behind at me, curious as I approached Timothy, who was on the ground, holding his stomach. They stepped aside, anticipating. Seeing the man on the ground didn't make pull my heart strings. Instead, I sought to hurt him. He was a poor substitute for Fish, a pitiful creature, someone who would likely be cast dead in the river without so much as a flag on the police's radar.

I placed my stiletto on his shoulder and rolled him on his back.

"How does it feel now?" I asked quietly. "Is working for Mooney all that it's cracked up to be?"

"I don't…." He began.

I kicked him in the face. He let out of a hard groan, bringing his hands to his face, drool and blood slowly pooling out of the corner of his mouth. He whimpered like a bitch, shying away from me.

I looked at the two men working for Oswald.

"Hold him down," I ordered.

They glanced at each other, turning to Oswald curiously.

"You heard her!" Oswald said, gesturing impatiently to them.

They glanced at each other one more time before shrugging their shoulders carelessly and lifting him up in a seated position.

"I said _hold him_ _ **down**_ , not sit him upright!" I snapped.

They quickly corrected the issue. I heard Oswald snicker.

Timothy looked up at me, eyes wide, mouth slightly ajar from what might come. I placed my stiletto back on his shoulder, slowly pressing my heel through the soft spot between it and his chest. He bit his lip, breaking the skin until he was bleeding. I could feel the wicked grin creasing my lips as he started crying, begging me to stop as my heel dug deeper into the soft muscle. One could feel mercy, remorse—I felt a giggle rising from my stomach, to my chest, and it escaped my mouth.

It then occurred to me that I liked causing this man pain.

I lifted my heel when he started whimpering, and he sighed in relief.

"Poor baby Timmy," I cooed.

Crouching down, I straddled his stomach, smirking down at him. The two minions glanced awkwardly at Oswald, who ignored them; his eyes were set on me.

I lowered my face an inch from his, and breathed on his face: "Do you _like_ working for Fish?"

"Yes, I mean, n-no," Timothy answered quickly, fumbling in his brain for an answer that would best appease me.

"Well, which is it?" I questioned. "Is it 'yes' or 'no'?"

"I…. please…."

"Am I making you nervous?" I asked.

"Yes."

"Is it because I'm hurting you or is it something much _harder_ to explain?" I questioned quietly.

To prove a point, I placed my knee between his legs. Ever so slightly, I felt the semi-erection through his pants. No wonder why he liked working for Fish. Having a boss lady might as well had been a high point in this man's career—from the look of it, things were certainly looking up.

I leaned forward and placed my lips gently against his ear.

"Don't worry, Timmy boy. I'll keep your dirty little secret." I whispered.

I stood to my feet, taking care to step on his fingers as I stepped aside and let the men continue beating him. Oswald had been watching me, his apple and knife held loosely in his hands and resting on his lap. His lips were parted in awe and his aquamarine eyes were looking at me with newfound fascination. I stood in front of him, bending at the waist as I kissed his cheek.

"You're right," I said, "this _is_ fun."

He smiled at my approval.

"Then why did you stop?" Oswald asked.

I ran my hands down the emerald green of his vest, and straightened his tie as he cut another slice of apple with the knife.

"This is fun and everything, don't get me wrong. But I want to be the one to kill him," I said quietly, lowering my voice to seductive tones.

"So vindictive," Oswald mused.

I covered my hand over his that held the knife and the sliced piece of fruit. I lifted it and licked the knife, taking the fruit in my mouth. A dangerous glint of lust flickered in the shine of his eyes as I winked at him, and sat on the table, watching the two men beat the shit out of Timothy.

With the apple eaten and tossed in the trash can, Oswald's hands were free. He sat in the chair directly across from me. His hands stroked my calves, fingertips ghosting over my stockings.

"I thought you would have been here earlier," Oswald mentioned offhandedly.

"I was preoccupied," I answered honestly.

"With?"

"The usual," I said. "Jim."

"And, how is he?" Oswald asked, slowly taking off my stilettos and placing them at the foot of his chair.

He gently massaged my right foot, fingers pressing the right spots—he didn't tickle, which was a plus.

In the background of our conversation, the men were taking turns in seeing just how hard they could hit the new umbrella boy. The latter had no pain tolerance but he certainly had endurance.

"Happy, now. Richard Sionis had his ass handed to him today," I said smoothly, grinning. "He was staging fights in abandoned buildings—like interviews. He and I took him down together."

Oswald looked at me reproachfully.

"You went alone?" He asked—ah, there's that protective side again.

"No. I was with my brother, Oz. I just said that."

Oswald's smile was forceful.

"I wish you had told me where you were going," Oswald said calmly.

"If I thought I was in any real danger, I would have. There were six guys in masks," I continued carelessly. "Six versus Jim and me. Not exactly a fair fight. He used to be in the Army, you know—I almost felt sorry for them when they were up against _him_."

"And what about you?" Oswald questioned.

I said evenly, "I did well. Stabbed a guy in the eyeball with a letter opener—kicked Sionis in the balls….it was a good day."

"That is what I like to hear," Oswald sighed, smiling.

He started massaging the other foot. His ministrations were gentle but firm, getting deep into the tissue but not so deep that it hurt. When his fingers moved to a different part of my foot, they slid, never missing a beat.

 _What a romantic_ , I thought. And he truly was.

"You said you made dinner reservations," I said, referring to the letter. "Where is….?"

As I spoke, Timothy groaned. I glanced behind and saw that Timothy was down—like really, really down. The men had beaten the shit out of him and the only thing that didn't seem to be bleeding was his face (which was odd). Oswald looked at the umbrella boy.

"String him up," Oswald ordered.

The men did as they were told, grabbing him and then tying him up to the railings above. The man hung upside down, blood rushing down to the pale forehead so his veins slightly bulged. Oswald ignored the man's whimpers; his attention being solely focused on me.

"You were saying?" Oswald encouraged.

"You said there were dinner reservations," I prompted.

"Yes," he said, smiling widely. "But that is a surprise. I know how you _love_ surprises."

"Only good ones," I reminded.

Before Oswald stood to his feet, he kissed the back of my feet. He leaned forward and kissed me gingerly on the lips before approaching an upside-down Timothy, looking at him.

"The thing is," Oswald chuckled, "When I had your job and someone asked me 'what is Ms. Mooney's secret', I could have answered."

He pushed Timothy to the side so he started swaying.

"Oh, Timothy," he spoke in a singsong voice, "I think you're holding back on me."

Timothy looked at him for a moment longer, gulping, his throat visibly making an effort to swallow. Eyes watering.

"Okay…." Timothy said quickly. "I think—I think I might have heard her talking to Butch."  
"Talking about what? Whom?" Oswald interrogated.

 _God, it made me hot just watching him work. Like holy fucking shit._

"Fal-Falcone," Timothy managed.

I remained seated, but I couldn't help but lean forward as my interest was piqued.

"She said 'our friend'…. 'our friend with Falcone'. That's it," His voice shook. "That's it. She was whispering, please…."

Oswald straightened.

"She has someone close to Falcone," Oswald said happily. "Of course." He then caressed the man's face and said sincerely, "Thank you."

He smiled, then seriously looked at me.

"He's all yours, Pet."

I leaned to the side, took the fruit-slicing knife from the surface of the table and hopped down on the ground, putting on my stilettos. Oswald leaned against one of the pillars of the building, arms crossed lazily over his chest, eyes darkening as he watched the knife twirl in my fingers lazily.

The two men approached as though to participate in the fun.

"He's mine." I told them.

The men glanced at Oswald, who held up a hand for them to stand down. They stepped back, hands being shoved into their pant pockets. I grinned like Cheshire cat.

"Let's see you get a hard-on now, huh?" I whispered darkly.

Timothy's eyes widened, mouth open in horror as I drove the knife into his stomach. He screamed at the top of his lungs, pleading for it to end as I sliced him from one hip to the other until his entrails became his ex-trails; liver, stomach, and other organs slowly fell from the carcass, a more exciting version of a pinata. I stepped back quickly when the blood shot back from artery, the copper oozing and soaking into Timothy's clothes and hair; then it started dripping into a massive puddle of crimson red below him.

I was surprised that none of it had gotten on my dress.

"Holy _crap_ ," muttered one of the boys, his face turning pale.

"That's a _lot_ of blood," the other one muttered.

I glanced at them pointedly.

"You want me to cut him in half? It'll probably make the transportation easier," I offered.

"No-no-no- _god no_ ," the men insisted. "We'll take him as is, you freaking sadist."

Ignoring their comment, I licked the tip of the knife, tasting the copper. I looked at Oswald pointedly while the men slowly cut the ropes, minding the puddle of blood.

I made a face, saying, "It doesn't taste sweet at all. Fish must have some weird taste buds."

Oswald smirked at me.

"Maybe it's just _my_ blood she is after," Oswald reminded.

I moved over to him and kissed his jaw, then whispered into his ear, "If your blood tastes anything like the rest of you, I'll be after it too."

I licked his earlobe.

His sharp intake of breath gave me all the clues needed to gather that he was aroused by the spectacle. I pressed my body against his, and I felt the semi-erection. His arms wrapped around my back, drawing me closer. I kissed him, he kissed me back.

When Timothy's body dropped unceremoniously on the floor, it splattered the men with blood and their obvious sounds of disgust made me chuckle.

"You have some weak-stomached employees, Mr. Penguin," I said softly.

I felt Oswald's semi-erection harden after hearing his moniker leave my lips in a seductive tone. He captured my mouth in a hard kiss, one that felt like he might eat me alive. My breath left me. I glanced back at the men who were oddly wrapping the body in clear plastic—when they'd finished, they might as well had wrapped the carcass in a bloody blanket. With one holding the feet and the other holding the shoulders, the men side-stepped awkwardly outside.

Oswald held out his arm for me to take. I happily did so. As we walked out of the warehouse to the car where Gabe was waiting for us, Gabe stepped out of the driver's seat, opening the back door. I thanked him sweetly (he beamed at me) and I crawled into the car. Oswald and I kissed briefly before he went around the other side and sat in the passenger's seat (Gabe closed my door). I leaned forward between them.

"Hiya, Gabe." I greeted.

"Hello, Miss Gordon."

"Stop with the formalities," I said, smacking his shoulder gently. "Just call me 'Sylvia'."

Gabe glanced at Oswald who shrugged with little care of my preferences. I found it curious that with anything that concerned me, all those who were in Oswald's employ always gave him the side-way glance for approval, seeking out his permission, careful not to step over whatever boundaries he had set.

They were scared of him.

And that made my kitty purr.

The car started as Gabe revved the engine and moved out of the parking lot. I leaned forward again to whisper into Oswald's ear. He turned his head to hear me.

"Just so you know, I was serious about the riding crop business," I told him quietly.

Gabe glanced at us, eyebrow raising, but then quickly shot his eyes back to the road, knowing better.

 _Good boy_ , I thought. _It's for the best._

"I know you're serious," Oswald reassured.

I kissed his cheek, and then sat back in my seat.

There was silence in the car aside from the music that came out as static from the radio. The weather was dull—stormy gray clouds rolling in. It would likely start raining. At the front, Oswald and Gabe were talking about the 'friend with Falcone'. I was about to contribute before my cell phone started going off.

Oswald looked at the back, glancing at me curiously.

"I can bet my life that it's Jim." I said pointedly. I pulled out of my phone, looked at the Caller ID, and chuckled. "See?"

Oswald rolled his eyes then turned to face the front.

"'Sup." I answered.

"What the hell kind of greeting is that?" Jim questioned from the other line.

"I wanted to be spontaneous," I replied. "You sound grumpy—per the usual. What's up?"

"Barbara left."

"Left-left?" I asked.

"Left-left," He confirmed, mocking my slang. "She hasn't contacted you at all, has she?"

"Nope," I answered, leaning back and looking up at the car roof. "If she did, do you think I would have told you?"

"She's not staying with you, is she?"

"Jim, if she was…." I stopped myself, sighing tiredly. "If she was with me, I would have let you know."

"Good."

"Unless, of course, she didn't _want_ you to know, then I might be reluctant to divulge," I muttered.

" _IS SHE WITH YOU!"_

"Don't you fucking _yell_ at me!" I snapped.

Gabe glanced up at the rear-view mirror, looking at me with concern while Oswald shifted in his seat, doing the same.

I gave them a look that said 'it's fine, I can handle it'. They turned back and resumed their conversation about the possibilities of who the friend with Falcone might be.

"I'm just worried." Jim said apologetically. "She left me a letter…."

"Was it a Jody letter?"

"Nothing like that."

"Are you sure?" I asked.

"She's not cheating on me," Jim emphasized seriously.

"Well, with her type—you never know."

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"She's a First-Class _Barbie_ doll, Jim. A real looker," I said smoothly.

"Sylvia!"

"I said she's a _looker._ Not a _hooker_. Anyway, all joking aside—"

"That's not even funny, Vee."

"As I was saying," I made a point to be louder so as to cut him off. "She left you a letter?"

"Yeah," Jim said gruffly. "She's going out of town for a while. Zsasz and Falcone scared her pretty bad."

"Well, I told you. Zsasz isn't a homey guy," I recalled. "As for Falcone…" (Oswald glanced in my direction at the mention of the name) "Meeting the guy first hand after he's tried to kill her fiancé isn't exactly a great first impression. She's scared, James. Give her time. Give her a couple of days. When she's ready, she'll come back to you."

"How are you so sure?"

"I'm not. But it's probably the best advice you're ever going to hear," I said confidently. Switching gears, I asked, "How's work?"

" **Fine** ," he said briskly.

"That doesn't sound like it's 'fine'." I noted coolly.

Sensing my helpful tone, Jim said, "Black Gate prisoner, Ian Hargrove. You know him?"

"Do you expect me to be acquainted with every fucking criminal you come in contact with?" I questioned sarcastically.

"No, but it's worth a shot."

"No," I returned calmly. "I don't know him. What did he do?"

"Escaped during a transfer," said Jim grumpily.

"No shocker there."

"Could you keep the cynicism under control, Vee?"

"No can do, Hoss." I retorted smartly. "Anything else?"

He was silent for a moment before saying quickly, "Gotta go."

He hung up. Just as he did, Gabe stopped the car in front of a classy-looking restaurant. I'd never been before, but from the outside, it looked like a palace. Oswald stepped out wordlessly and Gabe did the same; the latter took two steps and opened my door. I thanked him with a nod of my head; he grinned at me as usual.

"Any certain time you want me to come?" Gabe asked Oswald, who looked at me for a second (his eyes taking in my lovely disposition) before looking at him again.

"I'll call you." Oswald told him, smiling a little.

"All right, boss." Gabe said, nodding his head in understanding.

He quickly hopped into the driver's seat and drove away. I tilted in my head curiously, glancing after the car that sped off before turning to Oswald who smiled expectantly at me.

"He's an odd guy, isn't he?" I asked pointedly.

"Not without reason," Oswald returned coolly.

Offering no explanation to the fact, he held out his hand for me to walk first and I did so. Strolling into the restaurant, he placed his hand on the small of my back, guiding me forward. A sweet gesture if one looked at the two of us, but it was Oswald's possessive trait creeping out. I didn't mind it. In fact, the small tinge of jealousy that made his eyes narrow at just about anyone that looked at me made me grin inside.

Being Maroni's right-hand man had its perks. Seeing Oswald, the greeter standing behind a mahogany podium appeared suddenly both excited and nervous as he quickly gestured for us to follow him.

I thought the restaurant looked beautiful on the outside. The interior decorator had really outdone himself. White-painted walls were adorned with real roses on vines that cascaded down pillars like a greenhouse vineyard. Small fountains, the size of bedside tables, were placed at just about every corner of the large dining hall, a glass prism of a cherub angel propped in the center. Along one giant wall was a water fall, the trench below holding the water and recycling the streams. Rocks smoothed by the rush of water lined the moat; on the surface were lily pads with plastic, life-like frogs. Under the surface swam an assortment of exotic fish, some I had never seen before.

"Holy mother of fucking god." I mumbled, picking my jaw off the floor.

The waiter that guided us to our reserved table wore a white-on-black suit, and at my comment, he appeared embarrassed.

"Sorry," I said, smiling gently.

"It's fine, ma'am. That's the usual reaction we get at _Manger Fantaisie_."

I stared at him, saying, "Is that French?"

" _Oui_." The waiter returned cheekily, winking.

"How do you say 'holy mother of fucking god' in French?" I asked the waiter.

He blushed.

"Sainte mère de Dieu putain."

I was taken aback when I heard the translation come from Oswald. I raised my eyebrows at him. The waiter looked just as startled, but not nearly as impressed as I was.

"You know French?" I asked.

Oswald smiled modestly, saying, "I've dabbled."

The waiter indicated a table, holding out his hand to my chair and scooted it out. I took my seat as Oswald sat down in front of me.

"What will you have?" The waiter asked, taking a pen and pad from the inner pocket of dress jacket, looking at me expectantly.

I smiled at Oswald, leaning forward.

"I want to hear you speak French again." I whispered.

"Shall I order for you?" Oswald asked.

"Please." I insisted, leaning back in my seat.

The waiter turned to Oswald, waiting for the (literal) order. Oswald spoke in fluent French, words I couldn't even catch or hadn't even known existed. I stared at him, still taken aback. With him, I felt like a real lady, a queen, a goddess.

' _Shall I order for you_.'

I never had anyone order for me before. Certainly, I didn't _need_ the extra treatment but good lord, I felt so spoiled and pampered. And the French—he sounded so fucking sophisticated speaking the language (after all who didn't, but he sounded even _more_ so!).

I'd been with him for months and never knew he was so…. bilingual. His intelligence was off the radar, and I had never been more attracted to him than I was right now. I found myself gripping the edge of the table to more or less pull back the urge to fuck him three stories under the table.

The waiter commented back in French with approval for whatever was ordered, and then he smiled at me with a preemptive grin.

"What would you like to drink, madame?"

 _Madame. Aren't_ we _getting cultural?_

"Whatever you think is best." I said, gesturing to him.

"Magnifique." He returned, smacking his lips and blowing a kiss to me.

He strolled away in the fancy suit. I turned to Oswald, who looked at me with a bit of a smug smile.

"Intelligent, strategic, and fluent in French," I sighed, placing my chin in the palm of my hand. "Is there anything else I should know about you, Oswald?"

"I can understand a little Russian," Oswald admitted.

"How do you know all of this stuff?" I asked.

"My mother was an immigrant, as you are well aware," said Oswald (I nodded), "and she took me several different places while growing up. I've learned to pick a few things up along the way."

"Including 'dabbling' in French," I noted, waving my hand in the direction the waiter had gone.

"Including that as well, yes," said Oswald, smiling sheepishly.

"Well, this certainly brings _my_ heritage towards a prehistorical side with cavemen and dinosaurs," I said pointedly. "The most education James and I ever received from our parents was how to change a tire and a few loop holes in the constitution, resulting in lawsuits involving a hooker and her gun-wielding goat."

Oswald made a face and said, "Pardon?"

"Dad was a lawyer," I said, shrugging a shoulder. "Too many odd cases to count. Gave me a few startling weird dreams as a teenager."

"About a prostitute?" Oswald suggested.

"No, the gun-wielding goat." I returned, smirking at him. "So, let me ask you this. How does someone as sophisticated and educated as you find someone like me so interesting? I'm surprised I don't bore you to death."

Oswald grinned with amusement.

"My dear, you are _anything_ but boring." He reassured. "Your comments made back in the warehouse—for example—can keep a man sitting on the edge of his chair."

I shrugged saying, "Anyone can be a thug, Ozzie."

"The beating is not what I was referring to, Pet," Oswald said smoothly.

A little sly smile lifted the corners of his mouth and I realized he was talking about the comments I made about the riding crop and fucking him.

"That's nothing new. But you know, I'm not wrong." I shifted in my chair, looking at him reproachfully. "Beating up the guy that carried _her_ umbrella" (We weren't in the right present company to speak so openly about Fish Mooney) "isn't all that interesting. Anyone can be a thug, Ozzie, or a gangster."

Oswald waved his hand dismissively, saying, "But you, my Pet, are something much more threatening."

I smiled.

"If I didn't know you better, Oswald, I'd say you were trying to butter me up."

Oswald grinned: "Guilty." He became more serious as he held out his hand and I placed mine in his palm. "That's not all what I am doing. The incident with Timothy, this dinner—it's my….my appreciation for you— _towards_ you…."

I noticed the hesitation in his voice, the way he sometimes became incoherent when he attempted to explain his intentions and affection for me. I thought it was beyond adorable.

"Thank you, Oswald." I told him with a smile. "It's very sweet. And this restaurant alone is unbelievable. What did the waiter say it was called again?"

" _Manger Fantaisie._ " Oswald said.

"What does that mean in English?"

Oswald cracked a grin, saying, "'To eat fancy'."

"Well," I said pointedly as I looked at the overall restaurant. "They certainly nailed that on the head, didn't they?"

The waiter returned with two more behind him, carrying two large platters and the beverages that followed. When the tops of the platters were lifted, the array of colors on the plate ranged from well-cooked red meats, green vegetables, and delectable fruits. In the center of the table, the waiter placed two smaller dishes; atop sat two slices of strawberry cheesecake. A glass of wine was placed before Oswald and myself and a bottle of wine in a bucket of ice was placed on a stool next to the table.

"Sainte mère de Dieu putain," I mumbled under my breath.

Oswald couldn't suppress his grin as the waiter cleared his throat, straightening his bow tie.

"You're a quick learner," the waiter noted, smiling at me.

"Yeah," I said, smirking. "Family trait."

"Do I know them, the family?" The waiter inquired.

"Probably not." I said smoothly. I looked at Oswald, "Unless they've been raided and jaded by the police, who really knows _any_ of my family?"

Oswald chuckled.

The waiter glanced at us, realizing that this was an inside joke regarding an unmet character (mainly James Gordon) and he seemed proactive in tending to the other patrons. Just as I was about to dig in, I heard a commotion just to my left. I glanced back but not in time for a different waiter to stumble backwards, holding an array of dishes and wine glasses before finally colliding to the ground. The dishes hit the ground, shattering the china. The wine glasses clattered and one spilled on the table, covering my lap and dampening my dress with its contents.

I didn't have such a shocked reaction as the waiter did. He quickly stood up, looking fearfully at myself then at Oswald, who looked like he might pounce on the fellow before I held up my hand and smiled kindly at the waiter.

"It's fine, it's fine," I said quickly.

The waiter quickly shuffled, and said that he would get a towel.

"Don't worry about it!" I insisted, snatching his arm.

The waiter looked at me uncertainly.

"I'll take care of it," I told him. I patted his arm, turning to Oswald. "I'll be right back, honey."

Oswald nodded, but his eyes glared furiously at the waiter who hedged away before he was left alone with the Penguin.

I made my way to the ladies' room, admiring the lavender-scented restroom, noting the incense burning on the counter with three sinks. Two candles per sink were lit, giving off the scent of the lavender. My heels clicked the surface of the red and white square-shaped tiles. The Queen of Hearts would have fallen in love with it.

 _Off with their heads,_ I thought humorously.

Quickly, I took several napkins, wetting them in the running water and vigorously worked the stain out of my clothes, but I was getting nowhere.

Another pair of heels clicked behind me as the toilet flushed, and I glanced at the reflection of a young, light brunette stepping out of the stall. She wore a baby-girl pink dress with white stockings and she carried a white handbag. Her eyes were wide like a doe's, and she noticed my predicament immediately.

"I have something to get that out," she offered.

"Do you, really?" I said skeptically. "You have a tide pen in that bag of yours?"

"Yeah," she said.

I blinked.

The girl sifted her hands through the handbag and held out a tide pen, as promised.

"I don't know how well that will get wine stains out," she said quietly.

She certainly was reserved, keeping her head bowed and her eyes cast down at the sink.

"Well, thank you, Miss…. I'm sorry," I chuckled, "I don't know your name."  
"Liza." She said with a smile, looking up at me. "My name is Liza."

"Is that short for Eliza?"

"No." She answered. "It's just Liza."

I watched her wash her hands in the sink, observing her delicate features. She looked at me curiously as I started rubbing the pen on my dress, but to no avail. Luckily, it was dark blue, and it wouldn't show for the most part.

"So," said Liza softly. "Do you come here often?"

"Here?" I reiterated, looking at the bathroom skeptically. "I hardly go out to these types of restaurants."

She laughed, "I know, right? It's too…."

"Expensive?" I suggested.

"Yeah," she said, leaning her back against the counter.

"So why are _you_ here?" I asked.

I rubbed the pen over my dress a little longer before resigning to the fact that this wasn't going to work. I took the wet paper towels and tried to do a little more damage before I gave up.

"I'm here with someone," said Liza, her voice taking on more of a breathy sound.

"Business or pleasure?" I chuckled.

"A little bit of both, I guess," Liza said quietly.

"Sounds complicated."  
Liza sighed, "You have _no_ idea."

"Anyone I might know?" I asked conversationally.

"Everyone knows him," said Liza smartly.

 _Well, well, aren't_ we _self-indulgent._

"Do they now?" I said cheekily.

I handed her the tide pen.

"Thanks, but I think that's as good as it's going to get." I said, brushing off my dress.

I started to get more paper towels, but there the canister was empty. Liza shook her head listlessly, like the bathroom of the fanciest restaurant should be more prepared for accidents. She sifted through her hand bag once more and brought out a package of Kleenex.

"Damn, do you keep a gun in there too?" I said quizzically.

"Maybe I should," Liza muttered.

"It's Gotham," I said, shrugging my shoulders. "Full of miscreants and bad characters. A girl as young as you should be more careful."

Liza smiled knowingly saying, "I'm more than safe these days."

"Why is that?" I asked.

"I'm here with Falcone."

 _And the plot thickens_.

I looked at Liza incredulously.

She smirked. The girl who looked so innocent was suddenly _very_ smug right now.

"Falcone, huh? Don Falcone?" I asked curiously.

"The same."

"Pretty big company for such a young girl like you," I told her.

"He wanted to show me a good time," said Liza, shrugging modestly. "I told him I didn't mind…."

"His type is always insistent though on treating a lady well," I said smoothly (thinking of Oswald). "You couldn't say 'no' even if you wanted to, I bet."

I threw away the Kleenex and smiled gratefully at the girl.

"Thank you very much for the help." I said sincerely, holding out my hand. She shook it. "It was nice meeting you, Liza."

"Nice meeting you too…."

"Call me 'Sylvia'." I told her.

She nodded quickly and I walked out of the restroom. I stood to the side, watching her leave as well. She walked out of the restaurant, and got into a car that had its own driver. I strolled from the women's restroom, watching the driver and Liza talk in low undertones before she nodded dutifully and crawled into the backseat willingly. Sitting beside her was the one and only Don Carmine Falcone.

I scoffed and started on my way to my table.

I wasn't surprised to see Oswald having a very strict conversation with the waiter who had spilled wine on me. They were talking in the same low undertones, but I could see the waiter looking more and more terrified. The moment I came to the table, Oswald glanced at me then turned to the waiter.

"Remember what I said," Oswald hissed.

"Yes, Penguin—er, Mr. Penguin, sir." The waiter stammered before leaving his side.

Oswald watched after him then turned to me. Seeing my grin, he looked at me curiously.

"What?" He asked.

I smirked.

"I know who the 'friend' with Falcone just might be." I cooed.

Oswald leaned forward, interested.

"Who?" He questioned.

I said simply, "Liza."

Oswald simply looked at me with ever-growing curiosity but I said nothing more. We continued to have dinner, talking about the simplicity of Gothamites.


	24. Vulnerability

Chapter Twenty-Four: Vulnerability

* * *

A/N: Hello, my lovely readers :) I wanted to take the time to say that I love your reviews (as always). Okay, enough mush! Here's the 24th chapter :D

* * *

The waiter who had spilled the wine on me avoided the table. The man who had waited on us and spoke in French and English became our permanent help. He looked the type to have another big career on the back burner and was doing the waiter thing just to keep up with humble appearances. Every now and then, he came by and filled up our glasses and reaffirming that all was up to par with our standards. After he had left, I watched him speak to a young woman three tables away; she was alone, wearing a sundress, and had the clearest complexion deemed to mankind.

Oswald noticed my shifting gaze, and he followed it to the same woman.

"Is something wrong?" Oswald asked finally, when the curiosity bested him.

I quickly looked away from the girl when she met my eyes, and I looked at Oswald who watched me expectantly as he took a sip of wine from his glass.

"No. Nothing." I said, allowing a small smile to swiftly make its way back to my face as I did the same.

I was lying through my teeth. The woman at the table was beautiful with sun-bleached curls, side-swept bangs transfixing one's attention to the pair of brilliant emerald green. Her yellow sundress made her look innocent, so pure….so sweet. As she spoke to the waiter, her mannerisms reminded me of a well-raised, proper girl whose ambition in the world was to eat the finest of desserts and marry a sweet young man who could give her all she would ever want and she would want for nothing.

Something about her vexed me.

I couldn't explain why.

Oswald's eyes narrowed in knowing, and he sat his glass down, leaning forward with a tilt of his head.

"Something _is_ wrong," Oswald corrected.

"Why do you think so?"

"I can hear your thoughts. They're screaming," he said softly.

I sighed, placing my hand on the table and ever so discreetly pointed towards the woman's direction.

"Do you see her?" I asked quietly.

Oswald glanced back then looked at me pointedly.

"I do. What about her?"

I frowned, saying, "Do you think she's pretty?"

"Should I?" Oswald returned.

"It's a simple question." I offered.

"A simple question with an unfortunate consequence if I agree?" Oswald replied smoothly.

"I won't get mad if you think she's pretty," I insisted. "Tell me. _Do_ you think she's pretty?"

He said honestly, "I do."

I nodded, taking that under consideration.

"Why do you ask?" Oswald inquired calmly.

I shrugged.

"Out of all the people here," I muttered, "she's talking to the waiter."

"I'm not understanding the point you're trying to make, Sylvia." Oswald told me logically, interlacing his fingers together on the table.

I bit my bottom lip as I watched the waiter and the woman carry a conversation in French about…. well, I didn't know what it was about since I didn't speak the language, but I wagered it was about the dining area. They gesticulated towards the chandeliers above, the black and navy-blue carpet below, and after a moment, the woman gestured for the man to take the seat opposite of her. After politely declining, the man submitted and sat across from her, looking more or less honored that she had taken interest in him at all.

"Sylvia?"

I looked at him, startled.

He looked concerned.

"What's wrong?" Oswald asked.

"If you could have any woman in the world," I told him quietly. "If you could have anyone that isn't me, who would you choose?"

"That's an absurd question," Oswald returned, chuckling a little.

"It's hypothetical."

"That makes no difference to me."

I shrugged saying, "You have _no_ one in mind?"

"Honestly, Pet." Oswald sighed, leaning back in his seat. "You're the only one I would ever want."

"Such a gentleman's answer," I muttered, shaking my head. I glanced at the woman flirting with the waiter. "Would you want her?"

Oswald closed his eyes for a second, like he was praying for patience, before he looked at me with the most serious gaze I had ever seen. The waiter and the woman were talking briefly and they began to stand up and walk over to our table. A moment of instant hatred towards the female borrowed deeper into the pit of my stomach, like a cramp that refused to let go.

The waiter stood between us and the woman smiled prettily at Oswald then at me.

"This is Rebecca," said the waiter, gesturing to the woman.

"Oh…." I muttered, looking at Oswald who shared the same confused expression. "Well…." I forced a smile. "Hello, Rebecca."

"Hi," the woman said sweetly. She held out her hand and Oswald curiously shook it. "Just wanted to say that it is an _honor_ to meet you, Mr. Penguin…." She gushed, like she just couldn't stop smiling.

Oswald glanced at the waiter incredulously, becoming even more confused. I was with him there.

"Excuse me…." I said calmly. "Who exactly _are_ you?"

"I'm just a big fan of Don Maroni," said Rebecca politely. "And I know you" (She turned to Oswald as though I didn't exist anymore) "work for him, and you're his right-hand man, so I thought I would introduce myself and…"

Oswald smiled at the publicity and looked at the waiter indicatively. The waiter looked happy at the interaction.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, I'm sure." Oswald said, smiling at her.

I felt an unnatural, unwelcome shiver crawl down my spine. Suddenly, I wanted to rip the bitch's eyes out.

"I was wondering," Rebecca said gently. "Could I ask you to have dinner with me tomorrow? It would be such a…."

"Keep walking, Blondie." I said oh-so-politely, forced smile, but otherwise, kept a stern tone.

"Well," Rebecca chirped. "No need to be so rude. I was only…."

I stood to my feet.

"I said…. Keep…. _walking_."

Oswald's eyebrows raised a little, watching me.

"Now, now, Sylvia," he said gently, "play nice."

Rebecca smiled at Oswald, who made a gesture to excuse my outlandish behavior.

"Another time then," Rebecca offered, glancing at me. She leaned forward and kissed Oswald on the cheek, who looked surprised. She turned to me. "You should really learn to be politer, Sylvia. I was _only_ trying to tell him how much I—"

"I know what you're trying to do," I interrupted her. I gestured to the waiter. "Did you put her up to this?"

"What?" Rebecca asked obliviously.

"What?" The waiter also said, looking at me like I was odd.

"Sylvia…." Oswald warned.

"He's my boyfriend." I told Rebecca coolly.

"Well, that certainly can be changed like a blink of an eye. What are you," Rebecca chuckled, "I know who you are—you're that detective's sister, aren't you? A little bit of third-class rubbish—"

"Who are _you_?" I questioned coldly. "You just come out of fucking _now_ here. And **you** …." I turned to the waiter. "Why did you even bring her over here?"

"I…." the waiter begun, but Rebecca interrupted him.

"You know what," said Rebecca coyly. "You're right. I was lying. I didn't even know who this 'penguin' was until he" (she gestured to the waiter) "started telling me about him. In with the big guy, Maroni, you know? I figured, hey, I could try to get in on that, but I didn't realize what a jealous-crazed bitch you were—ah!"

I punched her in the face.

Rebecca frowned at me.

She demanded, "What was that for?"

Oswald looked at the waiter, muttering, "What the _hell_ is happening?"

"I have no idea," the waiter quickly responded.

I looked at the waiter.

"Get her away from me," I ordered. "Or I'm going to kill her."

The waiter immediately obeyed, pointing Rebecca towards the exit.

I sat back down in a huff, looking at Oswald, who was staring back at me in shock.

"What?" I snapped.

"That was quite the spectacle," he said quietly.

"Well, she was coming onto you and I didn't like it," I grumbled. I crossed my arms gruffly.

Oswald's shock passed quickly and a smile replaced it. I looked at him, the anger slowly dying.

"What the hell are you smiling at?" I questioned.

"I have never seen you act like that," Oswald chortled. "That's been in you this entire time?"

I gulped down my entire glass of wine without stopping and placed it on the plate, clearly done with dinner.

"If you're mad because I acted like that," I grumbled, "I'm _sorry_ , but she pissed me off. Seeing her kiss you, buttering you up; and, worse, she didn't even fucking mean any of it." I was on a rant. "She just wanted the fucking power—Maroni this, and Maroni that—fucking bitch, the lying little whore…."

Oswald reached over the table, held my jaw firmly and kissed me. Hard.

When he pulled away, I looked at him, eyes wide.

"Unexpected," I mumbled, smiling at him.

"And I thought _I_ was the jealous one," Oswald said, winking at me.

"You're not mad?"

"Of course not," said Oswald gently. He sat back in his seat, smiling, still. "Honestly, I'd have done the same thing. But let us get a few things clear, shall we?"

"Sure."

Oswald said seriously (that business-like tone), "I'll have to find out where this Liza girl is staying, and find proof that she is spying on Falcone. You'll have to trust me."

"Trust you that you won't fuck her in her apartment?" I offered, feeling that tinge of jealousy find its way back to my stomach as I thought of pretty little Liza kissing Oswald.

After a moment, I smiled.

"I trust _you_. The others, not so much," I said coldly, glaring at literally everyone in the dining area. "I'm sorry…. a girl gets insecure sometimes. Even me. Insecurity is a helpless feeling."

"Well, you needn't worry," said he, kissing my cheek. "Insecurities make us vulnerable. Vulnerability is only human nature."

"Natural, huh? I'm going to hold you to that," I joked (well, half-serious).

"I would expect nothing less from you." Oswald returned.

After that fiasco, dinner was finished. He and I stood, tipped the waiter a good amount for dealing with Rebecca (although I would have preferred to do it myself), and then Gabe was called to take us home. Standing outside, I noticed the stormy clouds had only become angrier and it had started to sprinkle. Using the umbrella as a walking cane, Oswald lifted it now for its true purpose. Wrapping his arm around my waist, he pulled me close to him.

When a man walking past us grinned too sweetly at me, I felt his arm draw me even closer to him. I looked up at Oswald to see him glaring dangerously at the gentleman before the latter decided it was best to press onward. We were two jealous birds, but it seemed to be working out all right for the most part.

Gabe pulled up just as the rain had started pouring. He got out of the car quickly, opening the passenger side and the back door simultaneously. I crawled and closed the door on my own, smiling kindly at Gabe who rushed to the driver's seat, side-sweeping his forehead with his hand as the sky opened.

"How was dinner?" Gabe asked no one in particular.

"Eventful," Oswald sighed, situating himself in his seat. "What about yours?"

"Boring," said Gabe. "Turns out the only interesting people in our group are you two."

Oswald turned back saying, "See, Pet? Didn't I say you weren't boring?"

"Mm-hmm," I hummed.

* * *

Oswald and I stopped at the restaurant to take care a few loose ends. Oswald spoke with the chef about future menu options like the manager that he was. As shift-leader, I dealt with the staff who were requesting time off—this, that, and the other. I still wore my dress and heels and felt very much out of place, but business was business. A few new workers had been added while some had been fired due to negligence (mostly, their manners were out the door, so their paychecks were too). I gathered everyone in the kitchen, waiters and dishwashers alike.

"Our sinks are acting weird," said Chef Billy (didn't know his last name). "Plumber needs to take a look at it."

I added that to my list of things to bring up to Oswald—he was the boss after all.

"Our buffer died," said one of the janitors, kicking his heel against the dull machine sitting half-way in the closet. "Some mouse or vermin chewed through the cord and we ain't got anything else to buff the floors."

"Fuck that," said the Chef, "you can put the metal shiners on your ass and then wipe your butt against the floor, that'll work just as good!"

"Fuck you, Bill," said the Janitor, but there was a smile on his face.

"Can we all be serious for a moment?" I said coolly.

"Sure thing," said Billy, rubbing his left shoulder. "Are we getting Christmas off? Maroni sounds like a guy that would let us off for the holidays, you know."

"Holidays are far away," I told him. "And Maroni doesn't run the restaurant."

"Well, he might as well run it," said the Janitor, shaking his head. "He owns this place, don't he?"

"He owns it," I said coolly. "But he doesn't _run_ it."

"Eh…." Unanimous shrugs of 'Who really cares' all around.

"Did you go out to dinner or something?" asked Greg—one of the newer waiters. "You look nice."

"Thank you," I said, smiling kindly. "I did. Now…. for the staff members who have children, you will need to find suitable—and I _do_ mean **suitable—** child care while you're at work. We can't have children running around unattended."

"Yeah," said Greg, "after the child-snatcher fiasco, I'm surprised people are still allowing that…. _Mike_."  
Mike, another waiter, shot him a look, saying, "My boys ain't go nowhere else to go, _Greg_. They're bored at daycare, and they've been drawing on the doors at home."

"They're drawing on the doors _here_ ," the Janitor snapped. He looked at me. "I'm not cleaning up another knock-off version of the _Mona Lisa_ if I can deal with it."

"They're bored," Mike defended his kids. "If I could bring some toys from home—"

"They need a daycare," I said firmly. "We're not running a babysitting show here."

"Well, why don't _you_ take care of them?" Mike snapped.

"Find a daycare, Michael," I said curtly. "Otherwise, you'll be let go."

"Oh, that's real fair of you," he grumbled. "Taking a single parent out of the job—ain't that some shit."

"Don't pull the guilty card," I said, raising a finger to him. "You knew the rules coming into this job, and they haven't changed."

"What are we going to do about the buffer?" The Janitor said loudly.

"We'll get a repairman," I said smoothly.

"He's looked at it—work order's been in for _months."_

"Just mop the damn floors for now, Mitchell," I said, gesturing to the tiles. "They don't need buffering anyway."  
"Maroni been giving us compliments on the floors, though," Mitchell the Janitor continued. "He likes the floors."

"Put a pipe in it," said Billy the Chef with a laugh. "He ain't coming here for the damn floors—he comes here for the food. What's he gonna do, huh? _Eat_ off the floors? Why the hell would he do that?"

"Maybe that's his thing," said Mike, grinning toothily.

Everyone chuckled at that.

"Oh, for goodness sake," I mumbled, rolling my eyes.

"So, when is the repairman coming?" The Janitor asked curiously. "We need that buffer."

"Okay…." I sighed. I stood at the center and raised my voice. "Let's get a few things straight, 'kay? First off: The repairman _will_ be called, Mitchell. Until then, just mop. Maroni isn't going to care if it's buffed or not—seriously."

"But—" Mitchell began.

"Hush, I'm not finished." I snapped.

He pressed his lips together.

"Second," I said sternly. "The sinks _will_ be repaired. I've made a list and I will give it to the repairman when—"

"—You mean ' _if_ '—" Greg muttered.

" _WHEN_ he comes," I snapped. I pointed my pen at them all. "Interrupt me again, and you're all fired."

They remained silent.

"The buffer and sinks will be worked on in due time," I told him with forced calm. "Your children—for those who _have_ them—will be placed in a day care or with a babysitter or with whomever you find fit enough to care for your children. We are not running a babysitter's club and we are not going to be held responsible for _when_ these children go missing. Let's face it—Gotham fucking sucks." (I received unanimous agreement with that). "For what it's worth, I do sympathize with your situation, Mike. I'm sorry for your situation, but the rules still stand."

There was a mutual agreement.

"Now," I said with a smile. "As for the holidays, we shall see. I can speak with the manager in regards to what the schedule looks like and we will go from there."

"Or you can just fuck him six days 'til Sunday—make him smile," Mike chuckled, grinning toothily. "Then we can have the whole rest of the year off."

"Leave. Now."

I heard his voice and turned to see Oswald standing behind me, in the doorway, arms crossed and leaning against the door frame. How long he had been there, I hadn't the foggiest. Mike looked just as surprised as I was. He clearly wanted to make the effort of arguing with the matter, but he couldn't argue with the manager.

He grumbled under his breath, making a point to shove his shoulder into Oswald before leaving the kitchen. Oswald rolled his eyes then looked at me.

"Continue." Oswald said, gesturing for me to do so.

I beamed, then turned to the rest of the crew.

"Any questions?" I asked.

One hand raised.

I acknowledged them.

"Why is the sky blue?"

The staff chortled.

"Any _work-related_ questions?" I specified.

No more hands were raised.

"Good." I said. "You all are more than welcome to get back to work."

I turned to Oswald, who smiled at me.

"Look at you," I cooed, touching his shoulder. "Coming to my defense."

"I never liked him," Oswald said callously, referring to Mike. He smiled mischievously, leaning forward and he whispered, "But I _do_ like his suggestion."

"Fucking you six days 'til Sunday?" I recalled.

Oswald's sly smile confirmed it.

"That's a terrible suggestion," I said. "I'd fuck you year-round if it was humanely possible." I kissed his cheek, and walked out of the kitchen with Oswald smiling after me.

* * *

Home from the restaurant, Oswald sat on the couch in the living room, watching the news while I cleaned the kitchen (it was long overdue for it).

He stayed on top of things, keeping tabs on what the media knew (and didn't know). There was a lot of speculation about whether the bomber, Ian Hargrove, had escaped during the transfer or whether this was a plot of another kind. I hadn't heard anything from Jim regarding the incident since he had called, but I wasn't ruling out the fact that someone else had taken the bomber for their own reasons.

The media did a lot of speculation. There was an argument laid out on the television between one news channel reporter and the other about Homicide not doing their job and if they were doing it, how come the bomber was still out there?

I finished cleaning the kitchen and walked behind the couch, and placed my hands over Oswald's eyes. He startled, but smiled, placing his hands over mine but I didn't move them.

"Guess who?" I whispered.

"You're the only one in the apartment, Sylvia." Oswald said logically, resting his fingers on my wrists.

"You never know—I could be a materialized ghost."

"I doubt that."

"I could be a top-secret spy disguised as Sylvia, trying to catch you off guard, you know. Get you when you're at your most vulnerable." I teased, smirking at him.

I lowered my hands on his chest, and he leaned his head, meeting my eyes. Wordlessly, I kissed him—an upside-down Spiderman kiss. He returned it.

"May be, but I make it a habit _not_ to be caught off guard." Oswald said pointedly.

"I thought you said vulnerability is only human nature," I reminded, feeling very clever.

Oswald looked at me in a way that said 'don't twist my words on me', but was I not correct?

Since the dinner reservations earlier in the evening, I had dirty images of us playing on repeat in my head, and seeing him sitting on the couch, relaxed and all, just seemed to break my resolve. I started to loosen his tie, my lips parting so he could deepen the kiss. His tongue rubbed against my own. With his head resting on the back of the couch, his neck was exposed; I lined my fingers along his throat.

 _So sophisticated._

I heard him sigh.

 _So calm, and collected._

I buried my fingers under the layers of his suit, my thumbs tracing his collar bone. He raised his hands up to my face as the kissing became more passionate. I moved away, circling around the couch. His eyes followed me, almost as though he was in a trance. I undressed him, unbuttoning his jacket, his vest, and the shirt underneath. His skin was warm as my hands were cold; upon my contact, he sharply inhaled.

I knelt down between his legs, unbuckling the belt, unbuttoning his slacks. He shrugged off the layers, all the while watching me. His intense gaze made my cheeks flush with heat, but I didn't stop. I smiled up at him, and although he returned it, there was more than just satisfaction reflecting from the aquamarine.

"Lift your hips." I told him.

He did. I held the waistbands of his pants and boxers and pulled them down in a single sweep, taking off his shoes and socks, and pushed them aside. Seeing him naked before me while I was still fully dressed gave me a powerful feeling.

He was half-erect, and knowing that just by undressing him had caused Oswald to stiffen that much made me feel twice as sexy. I pushed his knees apart, standing between them. I smiled down at him.

"Do you feel defenseless _now_?" I asked softly.

Oswald looked up at me, lips set apart, and his fingers clenching the cushion's edges. I reached over him, palms flush with the upholstery as I kissed his chin, his jawbone, his left ear; he followed my mouth with his own, hypnotized. I licked his earlobe, and he shuddered.

"I asked you a question, Penguin," I whispered in the lowest of tones.

I smiled inwardly when his eyelids fluttered, and his knuckles turned white as they tightly clenched the cushions, like he was exercising a great deal of restraint. Glancing down, I saw that his hard-on had become nearly fully erect.

And that only made me power-hungry.

I never used his title, not really. But he grew enthusiastic when I did call him 'Penguin'. I couldn't suppress the crooked grin when I pulled back and saw him eyeing me carefully. A glare there was, but not entirely. There was a peak of interest, the intensity in them pulling at me.

I cradled his chin in my hand, smirking.

"You can say it," I whispered. "You're vulnerable. All your walls are lowered…. defenses out the door. And no matter how much you want to put them back up, you won't."

I touched my lips just a centimeter from his mouth, enough to tempt. My hands moved to his chest, nails grazing his skin downward until they rested on his thighs. His heavy breathing became shallow, almost non-existent as I massaged his inner thighs, but never touched where he clearly needed me most.

"Or maybe you can't." I drawled.

"Sylvia—"

"Shh..."

I kissed him again, and he eagerly returned it. He looked at me as I straightened.

"Come with me." I coaxed.

Inside, I was burning with desire, like it would consume me. I normally preferred that he be the dominant one, but the girl—Rebecca—had pulled out a darker part of me that I had not even realized existed. This jealousy I felt, even hours after it was displayed, had not hunkered down. I needed to know on a deeper level that Oswald was mine. Even if he said I had nothing to worry about, even if I _knew_ I could trust him…. I just had to know that he could be with me as he would allow no other person to see him: Vulnerable.

Into the bedroom, he followed me.

"Lie on the bed." I told him.

He looked at me like he hadn't heard correctly. I gestured to the mattress. He cleared his throat but did as I asked. I saw his face flush a shade of pink. Humiliation.

He moved to the middle of the bed, and lied on his back. From the drawer, I took out two scarves—black as night—and stepped to Oswald's left. He looked at me, eyebrows furrowed and eyes wide.

"Sylvia, I'm not sure that I'm completely comfortable with this." Oswald muttered.

I leaned over, and kissed him again. Soft, and tender.

I placed my hand along his hip bone; the muscle there twitched at my contact, tensing, before immediately relaxing. I slid my fingers down to his thigh, curving inward to feel the stiff member between his legs. Oswald made a small 'mmm', an involuntary moan.

"You know you'll always be my King….my King of Gotham," I told him softly. "But for tonight…." I rubbed the tip of his cock with my thumb and watched his face reveal signs of longing and pleasure. "I want you to give up that control, give it to me, and allow me to be _your_ Queen."

Oswald looked at me. It felt like a long moment had passed before he rested his head on the bed, looking up at the ceiling.

"I'll keep it loose so if you feel uncomfortable and no longer want to proceed, you can take it off." I told him gently.

He consented. I tied it around his eyes, and smiled when he shakily exhaled. I guided his hands above him as he allowed me to, and tied the second one around the wrists. He nervously bit his bottom lip.

I started undressing and I did it loudly enough that he could hear the rustling of my dress and stockings leave my body. His head moved in the direction of my voice as I walked to the foot of the bed, humming lowly. The last thing off my body were the three-inch stilettos. In my divan, I stored an assortment of lotions; I rubbed a fair amount on my hands and neck so they smelled like a mix of vanilla and mint. Getting on the bed, I watched Oswald shift in his position.

"You can deny it all you like, Penguin," I said softly (the corner of his mouth tilted upward at the use of his title) "but you _like_ this—whether it makes you feel uncomfortable or not."

I rubbed his ankles, my skin softened by lotion would feel like a blanket. Up to his knees...his thighs. With my ministrations, his body loosened and relaxed.

"When one sensation is lost," I said, referring to his eyesight, "your other senses learn to pick up the slack. I'll help you get in touch with them."

I knelt down to all fours, his body directly underneath me. Having him beneath me…. this intelligent, powerful man…. was giving me the giddy jitters. My heart was beating fast, thumping loudly in my brain and it took all my effort not to get it over with and just fuck him. I was teasing him, but this teasing was mainly just for me.

I straddled his waist, and lined my body with his: my perky, bare breasts against his chest, my hips soft with his hips. My fingers interlaced with his; as I kissed his chin and jaw, he moved his head so his mouth found mine.

"Can you hear me?" I asked lowly between kisses.

"Yes," Oswald muttered.

"Can you _feel_ me?"

I rolled my hips, moving my pussy along the shaft of his cock. Oswald grunted, his teeth gritting and jaw clenching as I continued the slow, steady grind.

"I take that as a 'yes'." I said and I couldn't help the evil little chuckle that came out.

I lowered my hand between his cock and my pussy, feeling his girth and, oh, so wanting him to be deep within my core. I dipped my fingers between my wet folds just briefly, moaning without restraint as I took them out. I placed my fingertips along his bottom lip.

"Taste me." I whispered.

His tongue moved out and licked my fingers and he craned his head upward to take more. Oswald sucked my fingers and I stared at him, momentarily taken aback by just how quickly he obeyed. How he craved the freeing need for submission, a guilty pleasure to let it all go and let someone _else_ take control. In the outside world, there was no chance of that happening. But inside the bedroom…. he was privy to do just that.

He would only trust me with that amount of control.

And I felt myself fall in love with him even more.

"How do I taste?" I asked him.

He answered with a quiet moan and a small thrust of his hips against mine.

"Good answer," I purred.

I shoved my mouth onto his, tasting myself on his tongue. The moment he felt my lips on his, he was hungry and eager to please. His hands lifted off the pillows, but I caught his wrists and pinned them back above his head.

"Sylvia…."

" _No_."  
Oswald startled at my tone. It was commanding. Authoritative.

I kissed his neck, licking the skin just above the carotid artery and blew. He shuddered.

I sat back up again and started grinding my pussy along the shaft of his cock. The muscles in his stomach and those around his hips contracted beautifully.

"Don't try taking back control," I told him softly, but firmly. "Let go."

Oswald stifled his moans as I gyrated my pussy harder against his pulsing cock. He was really making an effort to do exactly the opposite. Beads of sweat glistened on his forehead and neck with the effort of holding back.

I put the tip of his cock against my hot sex, teasing him with the idea of possible entry.

"Sylvia…." Oswald groaned.

"I can feel you're still holding back, Oz." I reprimanded (but I was smiling). "Remember, you're not with the mob. You're not at work. You're with _me_."

I brushed the tip of his cock against my clit, and I nearly bit my tongue with just how great it felt. I was wet; I could feel my excitement rolling down my thigh and onto the bed sheets. My vagina was clenching with need. Every part of my body wanted Oswald, wanted him deep inside, and begging.

I leaned forward and pulled the sash from Oswald's eyes. He squinted at the bedroom light above us before meeting my eyes.

"Trust me." I told him softly.

His sterling blue eyes took me in. I reached over and undid his wrist restraints. Then I lowered myself onto him, my body flush with his. We kissed gently, tenderly…. then it became passionate, and furious. His hips lifted up to mine, wanting more.

"Tell me what you want, my little Penguin."

Oswald's eyes reflected what might have been anger but I felt his erection twitch against my clit.

Someone else calls him 'little penguin', he gets pissed. When _I_ say it, he gets excited?

 _Interesting._

I rolled my hips against his, teasing him.

His arms wrapped behind me, his hands grabbing my ass as my pussy humped against the head of his cock.

"You want to be inside me so badly, don't you?" I taunted.

"Yes," Oswald mumbled.

"To be so deep inside my hot, wet sex…. you just don't 'want' it, you _need_ it."

"Fuck…." Oswald cursed.

Hearing the profanity come out of him was almost enough to bomb my ovaries. His body was shaking beneath me, trying so hard to maintain an ounce of control. I gyrated my pussy harder along the shaft, feeling it—hard as a rock—and it became fully erect. His fingertips dug into the cheeks of my ass, his panting becoming moans caught in his throat.

"That's it…." I whispered. "There it is…."

He was truly at his most vulnerable, red in the face, teeth gritting, sweating. Hungry and needy.

"Please," Oswald begged. " _Please_ …."

"Please _what_?"

"Fuck me for god's sake." Oswald whimpered. "I can't take it anymore…"

I licked his cheek.

"Good boy."

I grabbed his cock and shoved him deep inside of me. We both moaned in relief, and then it became animalistic, ravenous sex. In the instant he was inside of me, I lost my cool, my restraint. My nails sank into his chest and I bounced quick and hard on him, feeling his cock penetrate my very core. Oswald moaned loudly, not holding back (much to my satisfaction). It didn't take long for either of us to meet our peak.

But when the climax hit, it hit strong. My body convulsed; black and red circles dulled my vision and I swore the earth moved backward a few pegs. Oswald's eyes rolled in the back of his head, mouth open in ecstasy—ah, it was beautiful.

I pulled him out, and collapsed on my back beside him.

"That was incredible," Oswald panted.

I smiled at him saying, "I thought so too."

He kissed my bottom lip and I reciprocated it.


	25. A Normal Work Day

Chapter Twenty-Five: A Normal Work Day

A/N: Hello, readers! Hope you enjoy this chapter!

* * *

In the morning that followed, I felt groggy and my joints were sore. Particularly the ones that anchored my legs to my bottom half where I had ridden Oswald to oblivion and back. Turning on my side, I saw Oswald sleeping on his side, facing me. The covers had been tangled during the night so half of it covered him and me, while the other half was slowly trying to make its way to the floor. I had crawled out of bed, muttering obscenities when I felt my body screaming. After a hot shower, I felt a lot better. I pulled aside the curtain and stepped out of the tub and I gasped when I saw Oswald standing in the bathroom, fully dressed.

"Oh my god, how long have you been standing there?" I exclaimed, placing my hand over where my heart used to be (I nearly had a heart attack when I saw him there).

"Longer than you'd like," Oswald admitted with a sheepish grin.

"You move quiet," I commented and I thanked him when he handed me a soft, warm towel which I wrapped around my body.

He acknowledged my comment with a curt bow of his head, obviously flattered, and then was onto business.

"I thought you would be interested in knowing where I will be this afternoon," said Oswald pointedly.

"Liza's place?" I guessed.

Oswald nodded. I smiled kindly, but I felt the familiar urge to hurt a bitch. He stepped forward, and placed both arms around my waist; I lifted mine around his neck almost instinctively.

"You have _nothing_ to worry about, Sylvia," Oswald reassured.

"I know."

"Given your confession last night, I just wanted to reiterate the point," he said, referring to my admission of jealousy.

"Do I have to apologize again?"

He kissed my lips and I nearly lost my balance. God, the things he did to me with just a simple peck. That was his way of saying I didn't have to say I was sorry for being jealous…. because he was the same way. He was about to withdrawal, but I caught his jacket and pulled him closer to me. His low chuckle vibrated in my mouth.

The kiss ended naturally and I beamed at him.

"What if this Liza girl isn't Mooney's spy?" I suggested. "What if I'm wrong?"

"Don't be so quick to doubt yourself: Natalia is gone," Oswald reasoned. "And Liza looks like a spitting image of his mother. Mooney and Falcone talked frequently about his mother. I have a hard time believing this is all coincidental. So, it's plausible."

"Who the hell is Natalia?" I questioned.

"His last lady friend," he explained.

"I'm sure her disappearance wasn't 'coincidental." I said sarcastically.

"Just as I am sure that Liza didn't just 'happen' to become Falcone's new love interest," Oswald replied with same dripping sarcasm.

I grinned mischievously saying, "Fish using Falcone's mother against him…. would that be to say that if I looked like a younger version of your mother, you'd fancy me as well?"

Oswald gave me a look.

"What?" I responded innocently. "I'm not saying you'd fuck your mom, Oz. I'm throwing out a hypothetical."

"Can we not—I'd rather not talk about this," He muttered incredulously. "Not even hypothetically."

I shrugged, turned around, unwrapped the towel from my body, flipped my hair over and began drying my hair with the sole intention of not getting Oswald wet.

I heard him sigh, and felt his hands on my back, tracing my spine with his thumbs while the rest of his digits ghosted the rest of my skin. They moved even further down, cupping my ass. I straightened, smirking at him.

"You're in a frisky mood," I noted. "Still thinking about last night?"

"You have an indomitable will," Oswald said lightly.

"You seemed to enjoy it enough."

"It was a different kind of torture. It will not be a night I will forget anytime soon."

I winked and walked past him. He looked after me as I moved to the bedroom and watched me dress into jeans and a T-shirt.

"What are your plans for this evening?" Oswald asked curiously, minding my graceful movements.

"I'm going back to the restaurant; I have to put in a few orders for repair," I listed off. "The staff are a bunch of whining babies, but some of them actually made legitimate complaints. I intend to handle it to the best of my ability without it going to a higher level."

"You mean _my_ level," Oswald pointed out.

"Yes. **Your** level," I confirmed, bending down at the waist to lace up my boots. "And I have to hire someone to take Mike's place."

"Sounds tedious."

"Oh, it is, believe me. But it's the least of my complaints though—the guy was an ass."

"I remember," Oswald agreed. "Any chance you'll be hearing from James Gordon?"  
"No. Should I be expecting a call?" I asked in return.

He cracked a smile: "He tends to show up at the most interesting moments."

"Only when he needs information from me."

"Does that bother you?"

I shrugged again, saying, "Even if it did, I can't help it. That's always been Jim's way."

Oswald nodded, but didn't say anything to the fact.

"He's been working on the bomber case," I said conversationally as I stood to my feet once my boots were completely laced. "Told me his name, but I have never heard of him."

"What's his name?"  
"Ian Hargrove," I responded. "Black Gate prisoner. Simple name enough, but I don't know bombers."

Oswald looked at me curiously, saying, "Why would you?"

"Jim thinks I might," I chuckled. "Like I know every criminal in town—told him that myself. But I digress."

I moved to leave the bedroom, and Oswald stepped out of my way.

"Do you ever worry about him?" He questioned, watching me gather my keys and phone, placing both items in the back of my jeans.

"Jim? No." I said, shaking my head. "He's always been able to take care of himself, pretty well-to-do guy. If I ever worry about him, it's because he can't handle his own."

"He worries about _you_ ," Oswald cared to note.

"He does, but he shouldn't have to."

"And why is that?"

"I have you," I said sweetly. I kissed him and he reciprocated it. "And you're all I will ever really need, Sweetheart. I'm going to the restaurant before the first shift leaves for the day. One more meeting should snap the staff back into cue. I love you."

"I love you too," he said and then I was out the door.

* * *

"You can't just call me out of the blue and expect me to fix things in a day," said Moe, the repairman. He stood across from me in the restaurant, wearing a white shirt and blue overalls and a pair of black goulashes. He had a _lot_ of facial hair, even for a plumber.

"It's a buffing machine," I said patiently. "It just needs its cord replaced."

"You dames think everything can be solved like 'that'," he said hoarsely, snapping his fingers, "but it ain't. I need to order the cord, have it shipped—"

"Then do it," I interrupted. "Don't give me excuses."

"I'm not giving you an excuse—I'm telling you why it's not going to be fixed by the end of the day."

"I never said I wanted it fixed by the end of the day," I reminded curtly. "You just assumed I did."

Moe stared at me, blinking a few times before he held out his hands.

"Look," he said. "The cord itself is gonna be like a hundred bucks, _at least_."

"What's your point?"

"It'll take a little longer than a couple days to get it in. Then I'll be borrowing the machine a few more days after that."

"Then borrow the machine," I insisted, throwing my hands up in the air. "Just take the damn thing. We can't use it anyway—it's broken."

"Do you have the manager's permission?"

I gave him a look.

"I'm just askin'," Moe said cautiously, stepping back a pace. "People say they got the manager's permission but then when the deed is done, they're saying they never even talked to the manager, and I am not about go through _that_ again."

"I have his permission and I am proceeding under his good graces," I reassured smartly. "Now can you fix the contraption or not? If you can't, you need to let me know so I can find someone who _can_."

"I can, I can," Moe insisted. "It'll be easy enough. But the sinks are not my problem. That's a plumber's issue."

"You _are_ a plumber."

"I'm a repairman."

"You fix sinks, don't you?"

"Yeah but—"

"Plumber," I emphasized.

"That sink ain't my territory, lady," Moe snapped. "It has a different manual, and different _company_. This company I work for don't do anything for sinks or plumbing, just the equipment. Like the buffer or the dishwashers."

I let out an exasperated sigh. Moe sensed my irritation (the whole restaurant could). I rubbed my face and looked at him pointedly.

"If you can't fix the sink, _who_ can? I need a name."

"I have a reference but—"

"What's the name?"

"Bob."

I blinked again.

"'Bob'?" I repeated skeptically. "Bob. Moe—what camping ground do you guys burrow under so I can rid the city of your pathetic existence?"

"Whoa, now," Moe began. "I've not insulted _you_. No need to get all genocide-y."

"Of course not, you're right," I said smoothly. "You're only irritating the fucking crackers out of me. What's Bob's last name—and I swear to god, if you say 'the builder', I will fucking pop you."

"Robert Farnsworth," Moe answered immediately. "He has a shop down a few streets between 4th and Main. It's like a little pawn shop, but it ain't. It's got a few trees behind it—hard to miss, but I swear it's there."

I stared at Moe, who looked back at me with trembling lips.

And then I realized it.

Moe was afraid of me.

 _Damn,_ I thought. _That feels kinda nice._

"Phone number?"

"Here," said Moe. He had one of the waiters scratch off a piece of notepad paper and he borrowed their pen, scribbling a number quickly, and he gave it to me.

I looked at it.

"Is that a seven or a one?" I asked, pointing.

"Seven."

"Looks like a one."

"It's supposed to be a seven," Moe said quickly.

"Fine." I said, pocketing the scribble. "So, you're fine with fixing the buffing machine?"

"Yeah, like I said. Just a few days, and I've got it taken care of."

"Good. Can you pick it up today?" I inquired calmly.

"I can get a truck," said Moe. "It won't fit in mine, but I can make it work."

"Fine," I said, nodding my head in approval. "Give me the total cost, the bill, and we'll go from there."

"Yes, ma'am," Moe said hurriedly.

He nearly stumbled over his feet as he made his way to the door. I heard a low, deep chuckle echo from behind me and I turned to see Maroni watching me, standing behind him were Gabe and Tomas. I looked at him curiously before resuming my natural happy candor, holding out my hand as I approached him.

"Don Maroni," I greeted as he shook it, "I didn't think you were going to be here this afternoon."  
"Eh, I thought I would check up on my favorite gal—and I'm not the least bit disappointed," Maroni laughed, smirking at me. "You had that guy sweating like a turkey during Thanksgiving."

"Can turkeys sweat?" I asked.

Maroni looked at me, thought for a second, and said humorously, "You know, I don't really know, but you get my point."

"Sure."

"Where's your counterpart?" Maroni asked, looking about the restaurant. "I've not seen him around."

"I'm taking care of business on his part," I answered honestly. "I told him to take the day off."

"An employee who looks after her boss—so you must be his far better half," chuckled Maroni, crossing his arms lazily over his chest.

"He considers myself to be," I responded modestly.

Maroni nodded, smiling widely. His eyes followed the two men who had accompanied Moe as they made a great effort of taking the buffing machine out of the kitchen and bringing it through the front door. The restaurant itself was crowded and they were making a scene about how they might get it through the front door.

"Guys. Guys…. GUYS!" I shouted.

Moe and his co-workers looked at me, including everyone else in the restaurant.

"Take it through the _back_ ," I ordered. "You can't get it through the front."

"That's what she said," chuckled Moe's co-worker.

"Shut the _hell up,_ " Moe snapped.

I grinned broadly as they made their way back through the kitchen and out the double doors in the back room. I rubbed the bridge of my nose, doing my best to suppress a headache.

"I see you have your hands full," Maroni commented, looking at me sympathetically. "Anything I can help with?"

"If you have the number to a competent repairman in Gotham, I would be most grateful."

"Sorry, babes," said Maroni, holding out his hands apologetically. "That's not my specialty—repairmen. Now if you need someone taken out" (he mimed a gunshot) "You know where to find me, huh?"

"Yes, sir," I returned, smiling.

He patted me on the back and I watched him leave with Tomas and Gabe, who gave me a respectful, curt nod in return before following him out.

Moe came back to the center, looking at me reprovingly.

"So, we might have a problem," he whispered.

"What?" I asked calmly.

"My boys just…." He trailed off when the lights suddenly went out and the customers were tossed into darkness, aside from the compassionate sun light peeking through the large bay windows around the diner.

I glared at Moe.

"Well, never mind, you already know," muttered Moe nervously. "They blew a fuse."

"No shit, sherlock," I said apathetically, shaking my head.

I pulled a chair out just as some of the customers were getting riled and I stood on it.

"Don't worry, people! It's just a blown fuse! It's being taken care of. While you wait, please, alcoholic beverages are on the house." I told them.

Multiple cheers, all around.

I hopped off the chair, ignoring Moe as I said to the bartender, "Be generous with the ice, would you? If I'm giving away free drinks, I'm going to make it half-ice."

The bartender nodded dutifully.

I turned to Moe.

"Why are you still standing here? Get working—and fix the fucking fuse, please?"

"Yes, ma'am!" Moe called as he headed back into the backroom.

 _Fucking idiots._

* * *

I was in the hiring process, having interviews in the open with a few who had spurred my interest. There was Maria, who had experience waitressing in a few towns outside of Gotham. She was an older woman in her 60s, and had a few degrees in the culinary arts. Her goal wasn't to make money, but to offer rich service to customers alike.

The second was a young man, aged 19, who never had a job. He was handsome, the stereotypical pretty boy one would guess to be a part of varsity football team. He didn't have any extracurricular activities and his mom drove him from home to school and vice versa. When asked if he would be able to get to work, he said he takes his bike and would be able to accomplish transportation in that way most of the time. He had high marks, mostly straight A's.

My last candidate was Mike.

He came to the restaurant, asking for his job back.

"I didn't fire you," I emphasized for the tenth time during this conversation. " _My_ boss fired you. So even if I wanted to, I couldn't give your job back to you regardless of the fact."

Mike went down on his knees in front of me.

 _Oh, for the love of…._

"Please?" Mike begged, palms together in prayer. "D'you have any idea how hard it is to get a job in Gotham? One that actually is worth having, I mean?"  
I frowned.

"Would you get off your knees?" I asked.

"I'm _begging_ you, Sylvia…. Miss Gordon, ma'am, please…. Look, I'm sorry for the comment I made earlier. You know? I was just tired and irritated and—you can understand what it's like working here, right? It's a hard job—you worked here—you still work here…."

"Get up, Michael."

He quickly did as he was told, standing to his feet.

"I'll tell you as I've already said. I can't hire you back," I said calmly. "You're on a blacklist, first off, and second, I, personally, won't go behind my supervisor's back and hire you when he's the one that kicked you out initially. Now, I'm sorry for your predicament, truly, I am." (And I was). "But you're beating a dead horse."

Mike frowned.

"I have two boys," said Mike quietly. "They're five and six. How am I going to explain to them why we had don't have any electricity?"

I said smoothly, "You can tell them you blew a fuse."

He didn't get the inside joke on that one—I forgot he wasn't here for that bit of calamity.

"Our bills are piling," Mike said, even quieter. "And I'm the only one that can pay 'em."

I stood.

"Like I said, Mike. I'm deeply sorry, but my hands are tied."

"This was the last option," said Mike, looking at me darkly. "No one will hire me."

"Of course, no one will hire you," I said pointedly. "You have two young children, and you're a single parent. You make inappropriate comments to people about their sex life—namely mine—and you've been at odds with Mr. Cobblepot ever since you were hired here."

Mike's frown deepened.

"Now, I'm sorry you're in this predicament—I've said it countless times. But there's nothing that I can do. Okay? So…. if I were you, I would try going anywhere else but here. McDonald's is always hiring, you know."

"That's it?" Mike breathed.

"That's all I can do, Michael," I emphasized, shaking my hands.

"You can talk to—"

"Let it _go_ ," I interrupted. "I'm not talking to anyone—not Maroni, not Mr. Cobblepot—no one. You've been told several times that this is a no-go. Please, leave."

He stepped towards me.

"You're going to let two children live without a working father—how merciless are you?"

"Okay…." I sighed irritably. "First off—I can't believe you're dragging this out. Second: step the hell back."

When he didn't, I started to move past him, done with the conversation. But lo and behold, he apparently felt differently. He grabbed my forearms.

"GIVE ME MY JOB BACK!"

I stared at him, feeling my stomach turn unpleasantly. I clenched my jaw, and my hands. I only looked at him coolly, hoping I wouldn't have to fight him in front of all these families. Hearing the commotion, several of the staff members strode out quickly from the kitchen and back room to see their shift leader held in a vice-like grip.

"You need to let me go," I told him calmly. "You need to let me go and walk away."

Mike's eyes—they were cold like ice. His upper lip trembled in fury. His gaze darted all around the room, taking in the fifty plus people in the dining area, knowing that one wrong move would not end well for him. Despite my overall fervent personality, I appeared well-liked by mostly everyone as several of the families slowly stood, including fathers, husbands, and sons. They looked angrily on.

"Leave, Michael." I said sternly.

"Security's been called," said Chef Billy, who had come out of the kitchen, having heard the shouting. "They're on the way."

 _Triggered_.

Mike roughly spun me around, wrapped his entire python-like arm over my chest and from the inner pocket of his jacket, he whipped out a pistol.

 _Great, and now I am hostage. Fucking peachy._

"Mike…." Billy began cautiously, stepping forward.

"DON'T FUCKING MOVE!" Mike screamed.

Taking me with him, he started moving into the kitchen, waving his gun around: "EVERYONE OUT OF THE KITCHEN! GET THE FUCK OUT!"

Billy frowned, lowering his hands.

"Do as he says!" I hissed. "Go!"

With the dangerous guy moodily pacing about (with me in his grip), the many customers ran out of the building, some crying and some waving their arms like the balloon streamers at car shows. He pushed me down on the tile and I sat in soapy water, grimacing when I felt it soak through my jeans and my underwear.

I began to stand, but Mike cocked the gun. And I decided that sitting in the water was probably for the best.

"I told you," Mike growled. "This was my last option."

 _Technically, taking_ me _was your last option. Not necessarily a good idea, but…._

Mike closed the door. With an impressive feat, he pulled the working refrigerator from the wall and shoved it in front of the freely swinging door. Before I could think, he was at the exit, doing the same thing except with a stove.

 _He's barricading us._

"You know," I said slowly. "There's really only one option left if you do things this way."

"What?"  
"You're getting killed," I said bluntly.

"I'll be taking you with me," growled Mike, eyes blazing.

I held up my hands in surrender, opting to say nothing to that in fear of what he might suggest to come.

He paced, careful not to slip on the soapy dish fluid that spilled when he'd ripped the stove from the sink. His anger pulsed through his veins, they were protruding through his neck. He was well-built, a strength-training hobbyist so it should not have surprised me that he could lift the appliances. The fact he did it so aggressively was what made me feel like a small little girl inside.

I didn't scare easily. But now…. well, I was honestly scared.

"You would let two children die before you went against your boss," Mike grumbled, glaring at me.

"In my defense—," I began.

He punched the wall, denting it.

"Nevermind," I said quickly.

"You don't know what it's like to feel desperate," said Mike, leaning against the refrigerator, gun being waved around freely as he gesticulated in conversation. "You think one moment you have everything planned out, you think everything's going to play out the way you want, but shit like _your boss_ happens. He just fires you—no warning at all—and when you try to come back, you're told 'oh we can't do anything, my hands are tied'. Fuck that. Fuck this place. Fuck him."

"Michael…." I said slowly.

He glared at me.

"Michael, listen to me. I know you're angry. I can understand—I mean, _truly_ understand" (He let out a hateful sigh) "where you're coming from, believe me. I know what it's like to feel desperate and helpless. But this isn't the way to do things."

"You're trying to psyche me out," said Mike resentfully. "To get the upper hand…."

"I'm not. I swear I am not."

Mike and I glanced towards the stove-blocked exit door, hearing the many police sirens going off. My heart quickened when Mike's eyes widened and then he looked at me with such resentment, I was certain he would shoot me right then and there.

"You didn't want to hire me," said Mike. "You said it's because of your boss—your fucking boyfriend. So, let's talk about that, huh? Let's talk about him. While they try to come in and save you, and shoot me."

"I'd rather not—"

" _Not your choice_ ," Mike snapped.

"Fine," I said. "Let's talk."

I sat back down on the floor, cradling my knees into my chest. He stared at me for the longest time, rolling his gun between his hands like a bar of soap. How his eyes hurt when they glared down at me.

"Where'd you meet?" Mike asked coldly.

"Fish Mooney's." I answered truthfully.

" _That_ bitch's club?"

"Yes, that bitch's club."

"How was the first date?"

"It was nice," I answered vaguely.

He held up the gun, and then shot the ceiling. I flinched. He then aimed the gun at me.

"Not good enough. Give me details."

"Why do you even care?" I breathed.

"Because you looked at him…. but you never looked at me."

I stared at him.

"Is that what this is about?" I questioned skeptically. "You have a _crush_ on me?"

"Part of it is because of you won't give me my fucking job back," said Mike vehemently. "The other half is—well, sure. Why not. I like you—well, _like_ is a little understated, I suppose. I really loved you. Truly."

"Oh god…." I muttered, rubbing my face. I looked at him pointedly: "You don't know me, Michael. You can't love someone you don't know."

"I know you. I _know_ the **real** you." Mike whispered.

 _Are we really doing this?_

"You don't know anything about me." I said. "You think that by screaming at me and telling me sob stories about your children would make me re-hire you after the illicit comment you made towards me about my love life. That doesn't sound like someone who knows me, that sounds like someone who doesn't know what love _really_ is and you're—"

He held the gun up to the ceiling and I flinched, even though he never shot it.

He smiled.

"So, tell me about you now…. lord knows we have the time." Mike chuckled darkly, gesturing to the enclosed kitchen.

I tried to breathe evenly, but I was starting to feel a little claustrophobic.

"When did you lose you virginity?" Mike asked, grinning broadly at me.

I looked at him, incredulous.

"I'm not going to answer—"

He aimed the gun at me and cocked it.

"You said I don't know shit about you. I'm resolving the issue. Now tell me who you first fucked and when—and hell, even _where_."

I glared at him.

"Tell me or I will shoot you, Sylvia. If you think I'm bluffing, try it."

My voice shook when I spoke: "David Beals."

"You call him 'Dave'?"

"He went by 'Alex'."

"Middle-Name-Guy, huh. How old were you?"

"I was 21."

"Where did you fuck?"

"We made love in the ocean."

"Where's the fucker now?" asked Mike, rolling his eyes.

"Probably jail," I answered quietly. "I don't know. I lost track of him when we broke up a month later."

Mike grinned maliciously.

"Jailbird, huh? Well, I shouldn't be surprised. You like those birds, don't you? Jailbirds and penguins…. What happened, little Vee? Let me guess. Did he get what he wanted and dump you?"

I frowned and said harshly, "Yes. That's what happened."

Mike stood and walked over to me. I flinched away. He grabbed my arm, pulling me towards him.

"Did you fuck him or did he fuck you?" He asked.

"He fucked me." I answered, my voice sounding unlike my own—detached.

Mike threw my arm and I let it fall like a rag doll along my side.

He listened, ears perking up when the sirens dulled. I couldn't hear anything _except_ the sirens. And the blood rushing to my head. There was a glass wall between the wash room and the dining area. We were nowhere close to it, huddled in the opaque corners of the kitchen and the dark walls of the back room. If I made a run for it, I _might_ clear it and break through the glass wall. But that was a long shot.

"Where did you and flappy bird go for your first date?" Mike questioned. For better measure, he held the gun in my face.

"We went to the carnival," I answered dully.

"Carnival? Shmancy guy like that should be taking you to the art gallery," Mike jeered.

"I've already seen the art gallery—my sister-in-law owns one." I returned pointedly. "Besides…." (I thought of Oz as we spoke) "He knew I hated galleries. I like carnivals." I glared at Mike: "Something _you_ wouldn't know…. you horse's ass."

Mike grinned toothily.

"Did you kiss him good night? Did he walk you to the door, or did you invite him inside to your apartment?" Mike asked.

I raised my head proudly and said, "I invited him in. But he politely declined, like a fucking gentleman—again, something _you_ don't know anything about."

Mike shrugged.

"I bet you're a real animal in the sack," Mike said, looking me up and down. "Those big blue eyes, so innocent…. but that red hair…. I always wondered if the carpet matched the drapes."

"You're insane," I scoffed.

"Maybe…. But you pushed me to this point, didn't you?" Mike growled. "You could have saved yourself the trouble of this whole thing if you just—for once—thought about me and gave me my job back. We wouldn't be in this mess. I wouldn't be here, holding this gun, and you wouldn't be on the fucking floor."

"No, Mike." I sighed, looking tiredly at him. "How I see it, you would be exactly where you are right now—regardless if I hired you. You brought that gun with you to work, not knowing what I would say. This was premeditated from the start, wasn't it? You might not have _wanted_ it to get this far, but you thought about it. And clearly…." I nervously laughed. "Clearly, you put enough thought into to actually go through with it because here we are."

From the outside, an altered high, booming voice. Jim's voice.

"MICHAEL TRAVINSKY!"

I glanced at the blocked door.

"MICHAEL! My name is Detective James Gordon of the GCPD!" Jim shouted through a megaphone (although it came out like a normal voice inside the room) "I don't know what's going on" ( _Ain't that the truth.)_ "But I am sure this whole thing is just a huge misunderstanding."

Mike glared at me, saying, "Your brother just goes where the bell tolls, don't he?"

"Like clockwork," I answered gravely.

He grabbed the neck of my T-shirt, hoisting me up forcefully.

"Easy, easy," I whispered, and it came out like a plea and I hated myself for it.

"Get the fuck up, bitch…. if I am going out there, you are too."

"Going out _where_?"

Mike moved me in front of him, his hand now wrapped around the nape of my neck. Mine quickly shot up to keep the pressure off; those fingers were digging into my breathing room! He used me as a human shield, the gun set right against my carotid artery as he and I staggered forward.

Then he realized the door was still blocked.

"Don't you fucking move," He growled. "I gotta move the stove. If you move, I'll shoot you—and you won't have to worry about anything else."

"Fine." I managed.

He moved the stove and then the moment it became free, he grabbed my neck again, shoving me in front of him once more. I gritted my teeth as he broke down the door, and I was facing about twenty police officers, excluding Capt. Essen, Harvey, and my own dear brother, Jim. The more surprising feat was that standing adjacent to them was Don Maroni and his twenty-something goons, pistols aimed in my direction. Maroni was leaned against one of the cop cars, having an odd conversation with a younger police officer and when the door was broken down, he told his men to stay calm, and don't do anything drastic.

And standing next to him, looking absolutely piss-worried was Oswald. Seeing me in my position, held as a hostage, Oswald had two clear emotions written on his face: rage and fear. Jim glanced at him then at me, and he lowered his gun when he saw me.

 _Shoot him, Jim. Shoot the fucker, don't worry about me…._

"Michael—that's your name, right," Jim said quickly, holding his other hand up cautiously.

"You know it is!" I snapped.

Mike tugged me closer to him and the gun dug into my hip and he shouted in unregistered volumes, "Shut the FUCK UP!"

"Sylvia, don't talk," Jim said calmly.

"Just fucking shoot him!" I said. I started to step away.

"You're NOT going ANYWHERE, you fucking cunt!"

"If you don't let me go, asshole, you're going to get gunned down!" I told him, my voice breaking as well. "And I'm _not_ about to be the victim here!"

"You're in the same shithole just as much as I am!" Mike growled into my ear.

"The hell I am," I said coldly, looking at him, "You have the fucking cops surrounding this place because _you_ took a hostage— **me—** who, by the way, has a fucking cop for a brother" (I gesticulated pointedly to Jim) "so he has every fucking available personnel out there—as you can fucking see. They have a code, and they may not kill you, but there's no negotiating your way out because _if they don't kill you_ **Maroni** fucking will because you have his 'favorite gal' strapped to your fucking hip!"

Mike stared at me incredulously, the gun held loosely in his hand—yet still buried in my hip—as he realized just how big the shithole was in perspective to where he was standing.

"Now who's the stupid _cunt_?" I questioned, smirking at him.

Mike glared furiously at me.

"I may be dying because of you." He breathed. "But you're the one who's really fucked."

"Why is that?"

"Because I'm not the one with a hole in my neck." Mike returned.

Before I registered his meaning, he forced me to turn, he aimed the gun at me. There was a unanimous 'DON'T DO IT!' from the cops.

Then he pulled the trigger.

I saw Jim shouting and everyone with their guns aimed and let loose the fire power. My vision became blurred as I looked up. Oswald was at my side, screaming, but I couldn't hear what he was saying—voices were garbled like I was swimming under the ocean. Pain had struck my neck, searing, and just as quickly, I was numbing, feeling nothing. Jim knelt down beside me, looking more than worried.

His hand on my neck, pressing down to slow the bleeding.

I wanted to cry. I wanted to scream. But all I could do was say only one single word.

"Ozzie…."

* * *

 **Author's Note: Sequel is up; it's called ' _He Calls Me Pigeon'_. 😊**


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